


Personal Space: The Final Frontier

by oldmaker



Series: space case [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Angels are Dicks, Canon Related, Dubious Consent, Dubious Science, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Episodic Chapters, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Medical Trauma, Memory Loss, Mind Control, Not a Crossover, Novel, POV Multiple, Past Character Death, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator, Whump, camp taken seriously, canonical campiness, let starfleet officers say fuck, like taken so deeply and earnestly seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:01:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 55,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24384748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldmaker/pseuds/oldmaker
Summary: "Captain's Log, Stardate 10918.8. Captain Ellen Harvelle reporting, First Officer… Castiel… attending. After a month of bargaining with the Gehennian government, efforts to permit a search party within the Rack facilities still proved unsuccessful. Although Starfleet’s orders dictated we tuck tail and leave, I elected to disregard this decision and beam a rescue operations team down for the recovery of Lieutenant Commander Dean Winchester.The life of Commander Rufus Turner was lost in the efforts, but the hostage was recovered, severely injured but alive. Although I have not escaped unscathed for disobeying a direct order, Starfleet has redirected their attention to understanding the circumstances surrounding Winchester’s imprisonment and rescue..."In the middle of a milk run mission to retrieve powerful artifacts before they can fall into the hands of galactic terrorists, things go, as always, horribly wrong — and Dean and Castiel are mortified to discover their bond, if they even have one, is all that stands between the galaxy and its annihilation.Something is rotten in the state of Starfleet.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: space case [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1819843
Comments: 96
Kudos: 85





	1. Redshirts Never Say Die

**Author's Note:**

> I write this with the universe of Star Trek: TOS in mind, but this is NOT A STAR TREK FIC, so (as much as I would have enjoyed including them) no ST characters will be present. I have replaced the race of Vulcans with the "Seraphim." They have obvious similarities, but are unique where they need to be.
> 
> This is sort of a conglomeration of the entire Destiel experience disguised as a Star Trek AU. It's canon-adjacent to several seasons at once and Star Trek was the perfect vessel to explore the aspects of the Dean/Cas relationship that speak most to me.
> 
> As a WIP, I update every couple Tuesdays as frequently as possible. This will be a long one, but a fun one!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has a degree in whooping ass, but a doctorate in getting ass-whooped.
> 
> “average starship has 10 redshirt deaths a year" factoid actualy just statistical error. average starship has 0 redshirt deaths per year. redshirt Dean Winchester, who works in starship orion & dies over 10,000 times each day, is an outlier adn should not have been counted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a basic rundown of jargon you may find helpful.
> 
> UNIFORMS  
> Gold = command  
> Red = security or engineering  
> Blue = science or medical
> 
> STARDATES  
> Literally just random numbers. Don't worry about it.
> 
> CHAIN OF COMMAND  
> Cadet < Ensign < Lieutenant < Lieutenant Commander < Commander < Captain < Admiral  
> "STARFLEET" vs. "FEDERATION"  
> A very very bad and somewhat inaccurate analogy: the Federation is a public school district and Starfleet is a bunch of sixth graders on safety patrol.

**Stardate 10918** _— Eight weeks ago_

_**EH.** I'm trying not to think about it. _

_**C.** Sir? _

**_EH._ ** _His_... _arm. His... You saw him._

_**C.** Yes. Briefly. _

_**EH.** I don't know what to do. _

_**C.** His brother is coming. We finish this, and then we strategize about— _

_**EH.** "Strategize." _

_**C.** I apologize for the… These are admittedly not… ideal circumstances to grow acquainted with each other. _

_**EH.** You’re telling me. _

_**C.** I would rather not give you reason to doubt my credentials. _

_**EH.** Great. _

_**C.** …Lieutenant Winchester, have a seat, here. Captain? _

_**EH.** Give me a moment. _

_Ahem._

_Captain's Log, Stardate 10918.8, Captain Ellen Harvelle reporting, First Officer… Castiel… attending. After a month of bargaining with the Gehennian government, efforts to permit a search party within the Rack facilities still proved unsuccessful. Although Starfleet’s orders dictated we tuck tail and leave, I elected to disregard this decision and beam a rescue operations team down for the recovery of Lieutenant Commander Dean Winchester._

_…The life of Commander Rufus Turner was lost in the efforts, but the hostage was recovered, severely injured but alive. Although I have not escaped unscathed for disobeying a direct order, Starfleet has redirected their attention to understanding the circumstances surrounding Winchester’s imprisonment and rescue. The Federation President has ordered reports from all living members of the_ Orion _’s rescue operations team for assistance. One of these brave crewmen is Lieutenant Sam Winchester, the hostage’s brother, who guided me in forming a rescue operation in the first place._

_Please state your name and rank for the log._

_**SW.** You literally just said them. _

_**EH.** It’s policy. _

_**SW.** …Lieutenant Sam Winchester. _

_**EH.** Lieutenant, tell us about how you found your brother. _

_**SW.** Didn’t I already? Hey, isn’t he supposed to read minds? _

_**C.** Captain Harvelle believes that is unnecessary. _

_**SW.** Yeah? What do _ you _believe?_

_**C.** I follow orders. _

_**EH.** Sam. _

_**SW.** Okay. How we found my brother. I mean. Heh. Should I start from the rescue op, or when I had to watch him get dragged down to The Rack while I was being beamed away to safety? _

_**EH.** The rescue operation is what we’re dealing with right now. _

_**SW.** …Okay. Well. After stealth proved pointless, Ketch decided we’d have to fight our way in. So we were… I mean, we’d been there for five days already, no communicators, nothing to… I was blind with violence. I _ \- _I mean, I lost my phaser, I was… with my bare hands, you know? And I thought that was horrific, that I was just as bad as them. But then when I saw Dean… um. I mean. You’ve seen him. D-do I have to… for the recording?_

_**EH.** No. A medic’s report will be included with this log. _

_**SW.** Okay. Where we found him, though, it felt so wrong. Like he’d been… p-planted there? They hadn’t… done that shit to him where we found him, which was in this… in this hallway, I mean, we didn’t even fight very far into the facility, there were just so many of them at the entrance, it was like they’d been tipped off that we were there… As soon as that second wave was gone we just turned and there he was, propped in a doorway, naked, and— can I get some water?_

_**C.** No. _

_**EH.** It’s alright, Castiel. Sam, we’re almost done here. _

_**SW.** This whole thing just reeks, sir. The way he got taken in the first place? How we had to go down and find him against orders? And then after days of infiltration he’s just… _ there _._

_**EH.** Just there? _

_**SW **.**** I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know anything. I just— I need to see my brother._

_**C.** The hostage is still comatose. _

_**SW.** You know what? Fuck you. _

_**EH.** Sam. _

_**SW.** Such dicks. _

_**EH.** Sam, the Federation President will hear this log. _

_**SW.** Good. The Federation wanted us to leave Dean to die alone. The Federation trusts the fucking _ Seraphim _now, after everything that happened to... The Federation turned a blind eye to my mom and my dad and Jessica so, yeah, sorry,_ Mister President _, for all the swearing._

_**EH.** …Are there any details about the Gehenna mission you’d like to add for the benefit of the investigation? _

_**SW.** …Just that… I don’t think we should have been able to find him. That place is a… your worst nightmare. The fact that Dean’s still alive means something’s really wrong. _

_**C.** Can you elaborate on that? _

_**SW.** I just… I have this feeling. Sir. _

**_EH._ ** _Thank you, Lieutenant. You are dismissed._

* * *

 **Stardate 10970 —** _Now_

Dean Winchester had only been wearing the thing for two weeks and already his gold tunic was in bloody shreds on the floor of a cave.

If Ellen had really believed the shirt was going to live through the end of the month, she must’ve been delusional. Dean may have practically been rebuilt from the bones up, but habits couldn’t be mended as easily as flesh. Even when his uniform had been red, Dean always seemed to be losing it, to women or workouts or homoerotic fistfights on hot desert planets. There it was now, in a heap, and hey, Garth was right: those uniforms really _did_ look more green than gold, especially in this weak torch lighting, with all that blood and gunk dampening the Starfleet-sanctioned luminescence. Dean tried — he’d really tried — to keep his tunic in one piece this time, but he mused that it would at least give him another opening to beg Ellen to return his red uniform once he got back to the ship.

 _If_ he got back.

Dean gave his cuffs another yank from where they were anchoring his hands above his head. All he received was a stiff clank and the sharp digging of metal into his wrists.

“I’m starting to wonder if you and I are some kind of bad luck charm,” Charlie Bradbury said in response to Dean’s spasm. She was chained up beside him, balls of her feet resting on the floor and wrists moored above her head. Her dress, an enviable red, was still in one piece, as was Jo Harvelle’s blue dress from where she was chained up against the adjacent wall. Kevin Tran’s gold tunic, however, had been removed and tossed aside in a dramatic display identical to Dean’s, although he did not wear the shirtlessness with nearly as much pride. Where Dean appeared in his glorious element, Kevin looked like a fourteen-year-old cadet who’d been mercilessly hazed at one of the Academy frat parties Dean once frequented.

“You and Dean, bad luck?” Jo scoffed through her parched throat. “You’re giving yourself too much credit. We all know this is Dean’s fault.”

“No, I’ve been keeping track,” Charlie shook her head, her eyes bright despite the dreary atmosphere of the cave. “I don’t mean trouble in general, but this specific scenario: the men’s shirts off, cuffed to a wall, tastefully beaten, prisoners of a matriarchal warrior tribe… it’s kinda becoming a thing for us.”

Dean did a quick tally in his head and realized that this was indeed the fifth mission on which he and Charlie had ended up in this scenario during their three years of service together aboard the _Orion._

“Gotta say, in terms of traditions, this one’s pretty metal,” Dean smirked.

“Did you have to drag _us_ into your macho tradition?” Jo glared, but her smile betrayed her. Kevin, however, nodded violently in answer to the question.

“As I recall, you begged us to come along, _against orders_ ,” Dean said, and sucked his teeth disapprovingly. “Your mother is going to be so mad at you.”

Jo shrugged, wincing with the movement. “It’s my mother’s job to be mad at me. The _Captain_ is going to be mad at _you_. You’re injured.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s a scratch.”

Kevin cleared his throat. “You have a twelve-inch slice above your nipples.”

“If Bobby can’t heal it, the freakin’ Seraph will. Now stop staring at my naked chest," Dean demanded, shaking his shackles to punctuate.

“Can’t help it,” Charlie moaned obnoxiously. “You’re just… so… masculine— _hey!_ ” She giggled as Dean kicked at her, viciously swiping back and nailing him in the thigh with the heel of her boot.

“Are you done?” Jo said, watching Dean and Charlie’s laughter turn to grimaces as they swayed from their restraints.

“Yes, _Ensign_ Harvelle, I am done,” Dean said. Jo’s response was a protruding tongue.

Dean let his neck relax, his head leaning back against the moist rock wall, and tried to ignore how much his whole body was hurting. His left arm remained noticeably weak, his legs significantly less flexible than they had been a few months ago, his breathing still labored despite Bobby’s specially prescribed workouts. But he was fine. Just out of practice. And, as Sam was so scrupulous in making note of, healing.

Maybe he’d feel differently if he could still remember what he was recovering from, but Dean thought he was doing a pretty convincing job of being _capable_ . For a guy who had been tortured for a month, he could still hold his own like nobody’s business. As Charlie had so graciously pointed out, even before his _mysterious displacement,_ he’d been overtaken and tied up plenty of times on a regular basis. Maybe this was a good thing. Proof he was back in business. And he didn’t even need his red tunic to prove it.

Didn’t mean he didn’t miss it.

He belonged on the head of the security team with Ketch, pulling out the heavy phasers, walking in the front of the landing party, sacrificing himself for the team if it ever came down to it. Carrying his parents’ legacy. Risking death. Defying legend. Dean Winchester, the redshirt who wouldn’t die — and now, the redshirt who wouldn’t _stay_ dead.

Everybody was treading lightly around him now, but Dean kinda thought they should be worshipping him. Four weeks in the most dangerous corner of the galaxy, and he was fine. Granted, he was “fine” after a month of intense physical therapy in sick bay and a disturbing procedure to bury his memories of the trauma so that he could function again. But he was alive. And instead of rewarding him status as the most badass redshirt ever, which Dean believed he had rightfully earned, Captain Ellen Harvelle had stripped him of his security privileges and demoted him to a freaking goldie.

 _It’s technically a promotion,_ she had said. _I’ve shoehorned you into the chain of command_.

Whatever. Even if he was next in line for second officer, Dean had liked it where he was: constantly battling his old Academy roommate for leadership of the squad and getting to be the only security member to simultaneously pilot the ship.

“They’re never going to find us,” Kevin groaned, and Dean and Charlie sighed, exchanging glances. “Stop making fun of me! I’m going to die here and it’s all because of your stupid plans that always go wrong.”

“You didn’t have to follow his stupid plans,” Charlie said.

“He’s my superior officer,” Kevin said, staring at her as if she had suggested the concept of celibate tribbles. “I have to do what he says. And he is always trying to get me killed. I followed him into the alley like he said, I planted those sensors like he said, I dropped my weapon like he said, and now look where I am.”

“Eh, shut up,” Dean said. “The alley was for cover, the sensors worked perfectly, and if you hadn’t dropped your weapon we’d have been killed on sight. So you’re welcome. Kev, we got Ketch, Sam, and a Seraph looking for us. We’ll be fine.”

“Calling the Commander by his race is disrespectful,” Kevin said.

Dean pursed his lips. “Oh, my bad. How long have you been an ensign again? Four years? That’s gotta be some kinda record, right?”

Kevin glared at Dean, then spat something vicious in what sounded like a combination of Ferengi and Romulan before dramatically turning his head away to pout at the other wall.

“At least we helped Ketch beam up the Ambassador,” Jo offered. “Mission accomplished, right?”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered. What a mess. The sole reason they’d been assigned to the job was because the _Orion_ was the only ship in the quadrant. Didn’t it always work out that way? Some Shurlian ambassador had sent himself to the wrong planet, fucked up when interacting with the locals, and more or less been enslaved as some sort of pet for the queen of the Rosencians: a tribe of bipedal, two-armed, two-tentacled matriarchs, strict isolationists who only communicated in a non-verbal language not offered in traditional Academy courses.

Kevin, Sam, and the Seraph were well-versed enough in the Rosencian sign language that they’d had one diplomatic conversation with the guards, but it proved they still couldn’t rescue the Shurlian from his gilded prison without a kidnapping. That night, the team had split into two; Ketch, Sam, and the Seraph infiltrating from the front while Dean, Charlie, Jo, and Kevin took the back.

The only thing they’d messed up was the timing. After causing a distraction and stealing away the ambassador, sending him off with Ketch, returning to where they’d stashed their communicators to avoid detection, they just happened to stumble straight into the Rosencian queen. An epic fight against the guards ensued (epic in that Charlie fought valiantly, Jo did her best, Kevin folded immediately, and Dean nearly got his nipples removed), and now, for the past four hours, they’d been in chains in what seemed to be the palace dungeon.

So, yeah, mission accomplished.

“Speaking of stupid plans,” Charlie prompted.

Dean glanced at her. “What?”

“Shh,” she hissed. “Don’t you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Jo muttered, but she had barely finished the word before the noise grew audible: wet, echoing footsteps, not unlike the ones they had taken when they’d been led down to their cell through the long, rocky tunnel connecting the cavern to the palace. Jo sucked in a breath. “Oh, that.”

“Okay. Now or never,” Dean whispered, glancing between his crewmates, and was relieved to see them nodding resolutely — even Kevin.

“We’ll have a good laugh about this one on the bridge,” Charlie murmured before dropping her head in the display they’d agreed upon earlier, the others going limp as the footsteps drew closer.

It was difficult with the light of the torches and the unique placement of the alien’s features, but Dean recognized the Rosencian guard who entered the cave as one who had been present during their first diplomatic discussion. Dean made eye contact with Kevin and dipped his head slightly. Kevin gulped, evidently understanding. _So far so good._

“Came just in time, you ugly bastard,” Dean chuckled, “we’re starving in here.”

The guard, carrying a tray of gruel in one giant meaty tentacle and a pitcher of water in the other, turned to Dean and glowered at him (he assumed; it was hard to tell when they had such lumpy faces), using its free hands to sign something at him bitterly.

“Scratch that, sweetheart, why don’t you set the dinner down and show me what else those tentacles can do?” Dean smirked. The guard, who may not have understood the language but had no problem recognizing the taunt, stepped forward, rolling its neck and then promptly socking Dean in the gut with a stone-hard fist.

Temporarily shocked, Dean curled forward as far as he could with his hands chained over his head, valiantly attempting to laugh against his lungs’ failure to inflate. The guard seized the opportunity to shovel a spoonful of slimy gruel into his mouth. It tasted like Earth’s oysters yet the texture was that of wet kinetic sand. Dean _was_ hungry, so he forced himself to swallow, nearly vomiting in the process. He waited expectantly for an offerance of water, but it never came.

“Come on. Nothing to wash it down?” Dean wheezed.

The Rosencian curled its hand towards Dean, the littlest finger extended and pointed downward. Dean could deduce what crude gesture that might roughly translate to in Standard and resolved himself to live with the lingering taste of rust and brine in his mouth.

Just as the guard moved towards Charlie with the feeding spoon extended, she cried out in sudden pain. The guard froze. When it approached her with the spoon again she _screamed_ in agony, throwing her head back and yanking on her chains.

“Help her!” Jo begged. “She’s _dying!_ ”

Dean shot her an incredulous glance and she widened her eyes at him in a _what-the-hell-did-you-want-me-to-say_ expression. It seemed to work on the Rosencian, however, and to Dean’s relief, it turned to Kevin with a concerned look on its bulbous face, the tentacles gently setting down the tray of gruel and the pitcher. It signed something at the ensign while Charlie continued to writhe and moan, recognizing that Kevin, out of the four prisoners, was the only one capable of communicating in something other than Standard.

Kevin’s hands, cuffed together above his head, could only form one phrase in response — the gentle tapping of his fingertips together, which also happened to be the single Rosencian communication Dean knew. _Permission to speak?_

The guard lifted its hands to unlock Kevin’s cuffs, only at eye level for the ginormous bastard (Kevin’s tiny frame was justified to tremble in its shadow). Kevin quickly slapped on his most convincing puppy-dog eyes and signed meekly at the Rosencian before pointing to Charlie, who shrieked again on cue.

Kevin started _crying_ , signing enthusiastically to punctuate his tender sobs. The sorrowful act was quite convincing (there was no doubt the tears of fear, at least, were real), and Dean could only imagine what kind of horrific illness the communications officer was whipping up for Charlie.

Charlie did her best to illustrate said illness with another twisted scream and stiff contortion. The guard finally conceded, assuaging Kevin with a few gestures before approaching Charlie, a dainty metal key glistening between his scaly fingers. As soon as her wrists were uncuffed, Charlie collapsed, but before she could hit the floor Kevin had leapt from the wall and slammed the tray of gruel upside the guard’s head.

Oyster-smelling mush sprayed across the cave, plastering to Dean’s cheek — God, if he had to keep smelling this stuff, he really _was_ going to throw up — before the Rosencian roared with rage and spun around. As a normally silent creature, its voice was terrifying; thick and bubbly like a snot globule was caught in its throat, an overtone scream of high and low pitches rattling the humans’ eardrums. As it lunged for Kevin, the ensign ducked beneath its legs, and Charlie sprung an astounding height upon the towering creature like a feral cat scaling a tree.

“Kevin, hurry!” Dean urged, helplessly watching Charlie wrap her arms around the Rosencian’s armored neck and kick fiercely at the tentacles waving about. Kevin scrambled across the floor, searching for something, and Dean winced as the guard slammed its back into the cave wall beside him, squashing Charlie against the wet rocks.

“I’m okay!” Charlie yelled weakly before Dean could voice his concern. When the Rosencian took a step forward in order to slam her again, Charlie swung herself down so she was dangling from its shoulder like a particularly stubborn scarf before dropping to the floor, nimble as a bird.

Dean twisted in his cuffs, trying to locate Kevin through the dark chaos, and caught his eye just in time to see him sit up on his knees, beaming, holding up that dainty metal key.

“Way to go, Kevin!” Dean cheered, just before a stray tentacle smacked Kevin flat to the floor and sent the key skidding across the cave, a few feet from Dean.

“Way to go, Kevin,” Jo groaned.

Charlie yelped in surprise as the Rosencian, which had been lifting her in the air, promptly dropped her to return its attention to Kevin. However, before she could run for the key, one hefty foot was planted on her back, pinning her to the floor.

The guard gripped Kevin’s skinny arms in its tentacles, ogling so intently at the ensign’s lachrymose blubbering that it didn’t notice Charlie beneath it, stretching out for the key, her grasping fingertips coming just shy of the instrument.

Dean winced against the restraints, stretching his arms as straight as he could, and inched his leg out, trying to kick the key within Charlie’s reach. His thighs and left arm screamed with the strain, and Dean growled with frustration, toeing towards the key — _just one more fucking centimeter_ — he dug his toe into the rocks, scuffing spastically at the tiny piece of metal, all of his concentration focused into one tiny moment of contact—

The key moved, the tiniest slide across the floor, and it disappeared in seconds beneath Charlie’s fist. Dean released a tense breath, his body swinging back to a vertical position beneath his cuffs, every joint threatening to give out with pain, but the valiant smile Charlie gave him as she repositioned the key in her hand made it worth it. Kevin, meanwhile, was being lifted back to his cuffs by the Rosencian’s tentacles, tears streaming down his cheeks and one eye already puffy, looking to become a goliath of a shiner. Charlie swung her arm up, stabbing the soft flesh inside the Rosencian’s knee with the little key, and the leg pinning her to the floor was immediately flung away with a shrill howl. She scrambled up to Dean, unlocking his cuffs while the Rosencian was distracted with its injured leg and Kevin’s deafening wails.

Once freed, Dean’s chest rushed with joy as he caught the Rosencian off-guard with a sharp kick. After four hours of hanging around, he felt a little bit like a marionette doll, his limbs clumsy and prickling with their whacked-out blood flow, but the adrenaline of _finally getting to fight again_ blocked it from his mind. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Charlie rushing to uncuff Jo, and the welcome peace of a plan actually going right soothed his mind. This would be a piece of cake.

Dean blocked a right hook from the Rosencian and bobbed between the tentacles, catching a rough blow to his good shoulder. Stepping into the impact, he turned, pulling out a roundhouse kick that for a moment had him thinking he’d blown his _own_ hip out. It connected with the guard’s abdomen, and it screeched angrily, causing all the humans present to flinch. The room tilted and Dean gasped, the shock of hard rock meeting his ass only registering when he noticed the errant tentacle that had swept his feet out from under him.

The other tentacle wrapped around his throat and Dean’s hands shot up to pry it off, but the grip was vice-like, he couldn’t breathe, and — oh, fuck, this was _not_ going to be a piece of cake. He flailed his legs furiously at the Rosencian’s hip area as the appendage tightened against his windpipe, hoping his heel would hit some sensitive bundle of nerves. Fuck proper fighting etiquette, Dean Winchester would not die getting asphyxiated by _tentacles_.

The Rosencian leered over Dean, the thick skin of its face so close he could make out flecks of colors in the leathery scales. Dean quickly realized that these were actually dots floating over his eyes as his vision gave out. The ringing in his ears grew overpowering — Kevin’s squealing certainly doing no favors — and just as Dean was losing the sensations in his thrashing extremities, a swatch of blue flashed near the guard’s head. _Atta girl, Jo!_

A hand pinched the joint of the Rosencian’s neck and immediately, the tentacles at Dean’s throat released, air flooding into his lungs, and Dean coughed violently as the blood pumped back through his body in a hot rush. The Rosencian crashed, knocked out stone cold, to the floor beside Dean. Tossing the limp tentacle out of the way, Dean gingerly massaged his throat (looking forward to Sam’s BDSM jokes just as eagerly as the eventual bruises) and glared up at his savior, who was most definitely _not_ Jo.

“We had it under control, Cas,” Dean said, but the words came out so hoarse even _he_ had to cringe at his patheticness. Castiel simply raised an eyebrow and extended his hand towards Dean. _Only 'cause I still can’t feel my legs_ , Dean told himself, begrudgingly gripping the outstretched hand and yelping as he was yanked to his feet like he weighed nothing at all.

“I can heal that,” Castiel said as Dean steadied himself, and it took Dean a moment to register that the science officer was referring to the giant gash across his bare pecs. Dean yanked his hand from the Seraph’s and waved him off.

“Dude, leave it,” Dean dismissed, turning pink thinking about how awkward it was going to be delivering a mission report to Ellen with no shirt on.

“Do not call me ‘dude’,” Castiel muttered.

“Dean!” Sam’s voice echoed from the junction of the cave tunnel, and Dean turned, immediately forgetting about Castiel, who merely transferred his attention to the other captured officers. The younger Winchester popped into the cave and god _damn_ Dean was gonna have to tease him later about how Neanderthalian he looked when those giant shoulders and long locks were illuminated by cavern torchlight, but for now, Dean just wanted a hug.

“Hiya, Sammy,” Dean greeted him, letting the navigator snatch him into a rib-crushing embrace. Dean coughed and Sam, assuming injury, released him instantly.

“Are you okay?!” Sam’s eyebrows were scrunched up so far a delta had formed in the lines on his forehead. He patted Dean’s arms, checked the marks on his chest and neck, and was just turning Dean’s head to the side to study the minor goose egg on his temple that he’d received the night before when Dean slapped his hands away.

“I’m awesome. I haven’t had this much fun since those hot chicks on Triskelion beat the shit out of us. Y’know, the whips and the shock collars? Remember that?” Dean beamed, giving Sam a playful whack on the shoulder to assure him of his physical well-being.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Sam laughed, pointing to Dean’s neck. “You always were a fan of that vintage… what’d you call it? Hentai?” He sobered sweetly following Dean’s resulting glower. “You’re _sure_ you’re not hurt?”

“Dean is absolutely fine,” Jo scoffed. She was helping Charlie get Kevin, still crying and trembling, to stand up. “So are we, and so is Kevin, no matter what he says.”

Castiel looked up from his medical tricorder, the handheld scanning device chirping happily above Kevin’s blabbering about _my insurance does not cover psychological trauma._

“Lieutenant Commander Bradbury has three bruised ribs,” Castiel announced. “Ensigns Harvelle and Tran have no major injuries.”

“Oh yeah? What do you call this?” Kevin gasped through his sobs as he finally made it to his feet, pointing furiously at his swollen eyelid. Castiel blinked and laid two fingers against Kevin’s eye. When he removed them, the swelling was gone.

“Ensign Tran has no major injuries,” Castiel repeated.

Dean, failing to hide his discomfort, turned his head away from the science officer. He’d only known the guy for a month but didn't think he'd ever stomach the fact that Seraphim could just spontaneously heal superficial injuries like that, that they had unfathomable strength and immunity, that they could take and give consciousness at ease, that they looked almost identical to humans yet couldn’t feel empathy and, oh, that they _could read minds_ — they were just fucking creepy. And that was the _least_ of what Dean knew about them.

“What about you guys?” Dean said, spinning Sam around to give him a brief once-over. Although covered in nearly as much grime as the rest of them, his brother seemed perfectly fine. “Wasn’t Ketch with you? How’d you find us?”

“Ketch is guarding the tunnel entrance,” Sam said. “We’ve been waiting it out all night, to avoid excessive conflict. We knew where you were, we just couldn’t get in until a guard had come down to feed you.”

“You knew we were down here and you just let us hang around?” Jo scoffed. “For four hours?”

“How did you know a guard was coming for us?” Charlie asked.

“Rosencians are a punctual species,” Castiel explained, shutting off his tricorder and pulling out his communicator. “They eat their first meal at 0600 hours, and per custom, that happens to be the one meal during which they feed their prisoners. We did not bother to retrieve you sooner because Rosencians do not harm their prisoners unless provoked.” Castiel made a display of turning his head from the unconscious guard on the cave floor to a deeply accusatory glare at Dean. “Physically _or_ emotionally.”

Dean flushed. “What are you looking at me for?”

The Seraph’s gaze shifted dispassionately to a blank spot on the wall as he tuned the frequency on his communicator. “Commander Castiel to Commander Ash.”

“Doctor Bad-Ass here,” crooned the tinny voice from the communicator’s speaker.

“Alert Captain Harvelle the landing party has been recovered with minimal injury and altercation,” Castiel reported. “Seven for beam-up.”

“This better be the last time I ever have to beam up with the landing party,” Kevin griped, but before he had even finished his sentence, the world around them was dissolving into the bright, angular scene of the _Orion’s_ transporter room, leaving the passed-out Rosencian, an upturned tray of gruel, and two ruined gold tunics on the planet below.

* * *

Captain Ellen Harvelle strolled into the transporter room just as the landing party’s molecules were rearranging themselves back into their proper forms. Her arms were folded and her face was set and Dean didn’t need to be a trained Starfleet officer to know which order would come out of her mouth first.

“Joanna Beth Harvelle.”

Jo was already stomping down off the beaming pad. “What,” she demanded, folding her arms in an adorable mirror image and glaring somewhere in the vicinity of her mother’s head. “Sir.”

The captain didn’t bat an eye at the attitude in her tone. “You’re confined to quarters until further notice.”

Jo groaned, muttering several minor profanities under her breath as she marched toward the door, and whipped her head around to bid adieu to the team. When she caught Dean’s eye, she laughed. “I sneak away on one harmless little mission, and you’re gonna punish me and not my enablers?”

“Oh, trust me, Ensign, they won’t be hearing the end of this one for a long time.” Ellen narrowed her eyes at Ash in particular, who had been chilling behind the transporter machine picking at a hangnail to avoid being dragged into it. He glanced up at Ellen and pursed his lips.

“Coulda gone worse,” Ash mumbled as Jo’s blue dress stormed out in a huff.

The rest of the landing party made their way off of the beaming platform. Dean’s arms had subconsciously wrapped themselves around his bare torso, the dry and sterile air somehow making him feel more exposed than he had in the dark, moist cave.

“You look cold, Mister Winchester.”

Dean grinned at the captain sheepishly, his face growing warm despite the accurate observation. “It seems we, ah, had a little disagreement about the dress code.”

Ellen raised an eyebrow. “You’re wearing the latest fashion rather proudly.”

“You know what,” sang an accented voice from behind Dean, “I believe it flatters him.” A red-sleeved, muscular arm slung itself around Dean’s shoulders, and he turned to see Arthur Ketch smirking down at him from his slightly taller height (Dean maintained it was his regulation-breaking platform boots, specially imported from Cyranon). He jutted his chin at the slice over Dean’s nipples. “I hope that’s not infected.”

“He’s right, Captain,” Dean clapped his arm around Ketch’s shoulders, shifting his gaze away from the security officer’s cold and intelligent eyes, gesturing to his wound with his free hand. “ _Red_ is my color.”

Ellen chuckled. “Real slick, Lieutenant Commander, but you’re not getting back on the security team that easily. No helmsman should have that much power.” Just as Dean began to protest, Ellen cut him off. “All you’ve done is prove to me that I made the right decision swapping your responsibilities. Which leads me to my next question.” She took a step out, addressing the entire landing party. “What is wrong with all of you?”

The six yet-unpunished crew members glanced between each other awkwardly, but received little more than a light scolding from the captain for their inability to keep a simple mission simple, to keep the ensigns out of trouble, and to keep Dean and Charlie out of chains.

“In our defense, we didn’t break the Prime Directive,” Sam offered.

“Yeah. We only broke my face,” Kevin griped.

Before Ellen could react, the Seraph cut in. “Mister Tran is not injured. I healed what little damage he sustained myself.”

“My whole body is on fire,” Kevin insisted, although his shirtless shivering suggested otherwise. “Captain, please, never send me on one of these things again. I’m basically their chew toy.”

“Chew toy?” Dean spun on him with a laugh. “You weren’t getting choked to death by tentacles.”

“You were getting choked?!” Ketch grinned. "Without me?"

“Dude, that was _one time at the Academy—_ ”

“Alright, enough, boys,” Ellen ordered. “Let me talk to Castiel for a moment in peace, and then I’ll deal with whatever’s going on here.”

As Ellen pulled the Seraph aside, taking his tricorder to study, Dean narrowed his eyes at Ketch. “So.”

Ketch blinked, shrugged a little. “So?”

Dean gaped at the security officer, jerked his head towards Ellen, stuck his hands out in what he assumed translated as a _help me out here_ kind of gesture. Ketch shook his head.

“ _What?_ Sorry, I don’t speak _shithead_.”

“I swear to God, Ketch,” Dean hissed, doing a record fast count to ten in his head to stop himself from wringing the Brit’s neck. “Are you gonna help me get back on security, or what?”

“No,” Ketch scoffed. Dean’s face burned, and Ketch’s eyes widened. “Oh, don’t tell me you were being serious when we talked about that earlier…”

“Yes. I was. Very serious. I need to be on the squad, Ketch.” Dean glanced at Ellen, who now seemed to be asking Charlie about her ribs. “I need to—”

“Prove yourself?” Ketch interrupted, looking at Dean tiredly the way he used to proofread Dean’s xenobiology essays in college. “Dean, there’s nothing to prove. Being on the security team, it’s about best fit.”

“You telling me I don’t belong where I _trained_ to excel? Where my father—”

“ _No_ ,” Ketch gritted his teeth. “Ellen has been thinking about switching you for years. This is not about your… circumstances.”

“Yeah, it is,” Dean growled. “You don’t need to lie to me.”

Ketch pinched the bridge of his nose. “See? This. Right there. That’s why you’re off the bloody squad. You don’t trust me, Dean. And you’re so bloody dense you think every compliment you’re given is backhanded. You outrank me now, idiot. We don’t have to fight over command anymore.”

Dean found himself at a loss for words, not sure how to explain that was exactly what was pissing him off, how he couldn’t get the image of a crimson-clad John Winchester out of his mind, how Dean had spent his whole life fighting to control his future and only now was realizing how much agency he no longer had.

Instead he clicked his teeth together, seething, racking his brain for one of Ketch’s most embarrassing Academy incidents to pay him back for the jab about the choking thing (which had truly been only one time, and they had both been drunk, so it didn’t count anyway).

But Ellen beat Dean to the finish, dismissing Ketch to get back to his shiply duties, and the security officer left with a ridiculously infuriating wink. In his self-righteous wake, Dean noticed Sam, hovering by the door, watching him with a twisted expression, his fingers fidgeting at his sides.

* * *

“Do you think a re-gen unit could make my nipples grow back?”

Doctor Bobby Singer let out a long-suffering sigh and pulled his metal device away from Dean’s half-healed chest. Dean knew him well enough to tell by the look in the doctor’s eyes he was debating whether or not to poke him with a paralysis hypospray and leave him lying there in sickbay to suffer for a few hours.

“Your nipples?”

“In theory.”

Bobby worked his jaw, studying Dean’s face with the carefully practiced reserve of a surgeon with an anger management problem. “Boy, if you’d lost your nipples in this fight, that woulda been poetic justice.”

“Yeah. But would it grow them back?”

“Of course,” Bobby said, a sharp _ya idjit_ strongly implied. “But I wouldn’t be the one to do it. You humiliate yourself like that, you deserve to live with missing nipples.”

“Maybe if you boys could manage to keep your shirts on,” Nurse Jody Mills muttered from one bed over where she was busy un-bruising Kevin, “we wouldn’t be so enthusiastic to embarrass you.”

“Sorry I asked,” Dean muttered.

Bobby set the re-gen unit back against Dean’s chest, tracing the gash with the mouth of the device, a prickling, cool sensation following the flesh it stitched together.

“Barely broke the skin,” Bobby remarked. “Why didn’t you just let Castiel heal it?”

“Mister Winchester preferred that I didn’t,” Castiel said, blankly observing Bobby’s ministrations over Dean. He was standing a yard away, directly in front of where Dean was perched at the edge of the biobed, his arms limp and straight at his sides, his head cocked just ever so slightly. His automatic pose of relaxation was so unnatural and stiff that Dean sometimes wondered if the Seraph was not actually a Seraph but instead some ghostlike entity trapped in a body, some weird apparition with terrifying powers that wouldn’t keep his nose out of Dean’s business. Dean had been informed that was just how Seraphim were. Lacking a frame of reference (beyond the horror stories he’d heard from his father), Dean remained skeptical.

“And why not?” If Bobby continued giving Dean that stink-eye, he was going to be leaving this sick bay with some severe self-respect issues.

Dean shrugged. “Ain’t nothin’ like the surgical precision of a Singer stitchin’,” he said with a weak chuckle.

“You’re gonna hafta get over your irrational fear of non-human abilities if you ever want the captain to take you seriously on an away trip again,” Bobby said, pulling back the re-gen machine to study the newly complete skin of Dean’s chest. He picked up an anti-inflammatory salve, addressing the goose egg on his temple and bruises at his throat. “What’ll you do if you get injured on an exploratory mission and the nearest medic is twenty miles away?”

“Die,” Dean said.

“If an officer were gravely injured, and there were no medic present, I would not ask permission before attempting to heal them to the best of my abilities,” Castiel interjected. “Those are my orders. From both Doctor Singer and Captain Harvelle.”

“Lie back,” Bobby said to Dean, pressing his shoulder gently. “Let’s get your physical over with so you can get back to piloting this thing.” He lowered his voice. “Can’t say I’m the biggest fan of that teenager being at the helm.”

“Claire Novak drives alright, for a girl,” Dean joked absently, lying back and repositioning himself on the biobed. Immediately, Castiel came forward to the bedside opposite Bobby, observing Dean like some apathetic zombie. Above Dean’s head, the K3 monitor began beeping and whirring as it displayed his heartbeat and pain levels (currently hovering at average statistics) with bright orange and green bars. As Bobby pulled out his handheld scanner, Dean furrowed his brow with confusion. “Hey, Ellen takes me plenty seriously. That mission was dangerous.”

Bobby scoffed. “Yeah, and that’s why she assigned you _Kevin_ as your backup officer.”

From the other biobed, Kevin nodded. “A suspiciously terrible decision, really.”

“And Jo. She _let_ Jo go on that mission. Ellen coulda had Cas send her back anytime.” Bobby shook his head, swapping his scanner for a reader tube, hovering it above Dean’s ears, eyes, and throat. “It’s reverse psychology, Dean, and that ain’t my doctorate talkin’. She knows she can’t control Jo, so she doesn’t try. I think she’s figured out by now that your ticker is wired just like her daughter’s.”

“What are you saying?”

“He’s saying,” Castiel said, “that we could afford to make mistakes on this mission, and that the captain could afford to send her weaker officers to do the job.”

“Weaker officers?” Dean made to sit up, baring his teeth at the science officer like a poked little rodent, but Bobby pushed him back down. Castiel raised an eyebrow as he observed.

“It was a test,” Bobby placated. “I told her not to send you at all. But she _wants_ you back in the field. That’s why she tossed you on a harmless little mission to get your head in the game.”

“This is bull,” Dean muttered, but he felt himself chill with a wave of embarrassment as he connected the dots. Ketch, Castiel, and Sam being kept entirely to one team after their split, infiltrating a palace that was shockingly easy to steal an ambassador from, the glaring lack of a licensed medic on the party (Dean really should have noticed that one), the only threat being the temporary misfortune of some time chained in a cave… for somebody like Kevin, who despised field work, that was as bad as it got. For somebody like Jo — or Dean in his present circumstances — it was just too much good clean cabin fever relief to be true. “So, what, I’m on training wheels now?”

“Purely in the metaphorical sense,” Castiel said.

Dean narrowed his eyes at the Seraph as Bobby probed around his navel using an instrument with a name he couldn’t remember. “And you knew about this?”

Castiel’s head, cocked to one side, shifted positions to be cocked to the other. His disgustingly wide, freakishly blue eyes blinked sharply, like an owl, or a possessed child from one of those antique horror films Sam liked to watch. “I knew.”

Bobby tapped Dean’s shoulder and the helmsman sat up, holding out his arm so that the doctor could attach a subdermal analyzer to the crook of his elbow to take blood and skin samples. They’d performed this routine so often over the past two weeks, ever since Dean had been up and moving around and functional again, that going through the motions of a checkup were as easy as breathing. He barely even noticed the uncomfortable pricks on his skin beneath the analyzer anymore, which was saying a lot, since when they first started out Dean always pitched a hissy fit before Bobby could clamp the thing on him.

“Anyway, even if this was a test, you passed,” Bobby said after the analyzer beeped with completion. “You did well down there. And even though you're still stiff, your medical readings look just dandy.”

“Good,” Dean smiled. “Can I go now?”

“No,” said Castiel.

“No, _because_ ,” Bobby quickly cut in, providing the human element of empathy the Seraph couldn’t seem to fathom, “we still need to check your head.”

Dean groaned deeply, dropping his shoulders like a petulant teen. “Bobby, come on.”

“Captain’s orders,” Castiel said.

“Better yet, _doctor’s_ orders.” Bobby frowned and gave Dean a light smack upside the back of the head, cutting off another one of his obnoxious groans mid-exhale. “Quit your bellyaching, boy, I’m tryna take care of you!”

Dean scowled at Bobby. Then he scowled at Kevin, who was leaving sick bay with a fresh gold tunic and an altogether impish smirk plastered across his freshly unmarred complexion. Then he scowled at Jody, who was observing his behavior disapprovingly from the corner of the room while writing something down in her logbook. And then he scowled Castiel, who was just standing there looking dead inside.

“We really have to every time?” Dean whined.

“Just for the time being,” Bobby said, softer. “You were touch-and-go for awhile, kid. We’re not gonna risk losing all that progress.”

Dean grunted, feeling a bit like a squashed clump of cells in a petri dish, his stomach churning with his thoughts. He considered spilling to Bobby how he felt about all of this, how everything they were doing to “save” him was just making him more confused, how much more vulnerable _not_ _knowing_ felt than _knowing_.

“You know, I think that spoonful of cat food I ate down there is gonna give me the shits,” he said instead.

“I would like to proceed with the examination,” Castiel said flatly, and Dean had to give it to him: he was patient, and he was precise, and he knew when to get a show on the road. Even if it would kill him to laugh at one shitty joke.

“By all means, mojo away.”

Castiel blinked resolutely before lifting his hand — no sudden movements, as if he was concerned Dean might bite if threatened. He splayed his fingers across Dean’s face from his temple to his chin, the pad of his thumb against the bridge of his nose. It reminded Dean of a game he used to play with Sam when they were little, where Dean would scrunch a hand through Sam’s mop top and chant _brain drain, brain drain_ while the younger Winchester shrieked with laughter. Technically, Castiel wasn’t draining anything, but the comparison was still funny to Dean, especially when he felt that little touch come back from within his head, hardly noticeable, like the weird, incoherent thoughts that flow unbidden immediately before and after falling asleep.

It wasn’t an awful procedure. The only memories Castiel was looking for were those the Seraph had wrapped up in tinfoil and stashed in Dean’s mental deep freeze weeks ago, and he wasn’t looking _at_ them, just checking none had leaked out. The only awkward side effect was that, no matter how hard Dean resisted eye contact, he couldn’t _not_ stare Castiel dead in the face while it was happening, like the visual connection was as integral to the mind-reading as the physical contact.

His irises were so blue it was nauseating.

Castiel put his hand down and turned to Bobby, blank-faced, and Dean broke eye contact with the Seraph so fast his eyeballs got whiplash. “He’s fine, Doctor.”

“Good.” Bobby gave Dean a slap on the back that was halfway between a congratulatory acknowledgement and a warning to just get out of his damn sick bay already. “Now snatch yourself a fresh tunic and get your ass back to flying this thing and, so help me God, if you get injured on a mission again, I solemnly swear I will remove your nipples myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two teaser:
> 
> Dean had never suffered from sleep paralysis demons like Sam, but he imagined Castiel's effect was similar.


	2. Where Angels Fear to Tread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean had never suffered from sleep paralysis demons like Sam, but he imagined Castiel's effect was similar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While researching whether everything in Star Trek took place in the Milky Way (it does) I came across Voyager 1's last picture of Earth and the passage by Carl Sagan about the pale blue dot and I have not cried that hard in a long time. I officially don't believe in Alternate Universes — what the hell do you think all those other billion GALAXIES in the universe are?! In the original Star Trek series, they only explored SEVEN PERCENT of the entire Milky Way galaxy and already met so many other worlds and civilizations. So therefore. All the billion galaxies in the universe are alternates of our own.
> 
> Chuck Shurley, I'm on to you.

**Stardate 10918** — _Eight weeks ago_

_**EH.** Please state your name and rank for the log. _

_**AK.** Lieutenant Commander Arthur Ketch. Is Sam…? I mean, do you think he can handle being around Dean when…? _

_**C.** We should focus on the investigation. _

_**AK.** Captain, if I may be so bold. Why is _ he _here?_

_**EH.** It’s mandatory that the First Officer be present during a session like this— _

_**AK.** He just got here. He’s hardly our First Officer. I’d prefer it if Ash— _

_**EH.** I’m sorry. It’s out of my control. I will remind you I’m in deep enough trouble as it is. _

_**AK.** …I know, sir. Um… I also wanted to tell you… Rufus’ blood is on _ my _hands, sir. Not yours._

_**EH.** Hm. Let’s, ah. Castiel is right. We should… start the investigation. _

_**AK.** But do you think Sam— _

_**EH.** Sam is dealing with this how he needs to. Let’s focus on you for now. _

_**AK.** He’s pretty… yeah. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this. Not that I’ve seen any of us like this. Pretty fucked up. Is the swearing going to be a problem? _

_**EH.**...Under these circumstances, I don’t think so. _

_**AK.** Splendid. Pretty fucked up. _

_**EH.** Tell us about how you found Lieutenant Commander Winchester. _

_**AK.** …I’ve been to many dark pits of the galaxy in my career. I was a guard at the intergalactic Purgatory penitentiary for a spell before I was transferred here. And that’s, I mean, the Cage is there. _ The _Cage. I never had to cross paths with The Cage during my time, but I imagine… well, from what I saw on Gehenna, I think The Rack is much worse._

 _It’s the louvre of torture. Room after room full of weapons so evil mentioning them by name is practically a war crime, guarded by kilometers of boobytraps and minefields. And the Klingons there… they’re the most putrid scum of the galaxy. And it’s not_ just _Klingons, sir, I do want to be clear about that_ . _Romulans, Excalbians, Melkotians—_

_**EH.** Melkotians? _

_**AK.** Yes. I fought a Melkot. It wasn’t easy with their hallucinatory tricks. _

_**C.** The Melkotians have only been in contact with the Federation, or any alien race altogether, within the past year. _

_**EH.** What the hell are they doing in an established penal colony? _

_**AK.** Right. And what the hell are they doing _ torturing _?_

_**C.** How did you extract the hostage? _

_**AK.** I’m getting there. We attempted stealth, because Samuel tries so bloody hard to hold onto his _ humanity _or whatever in times like these, and— and Rufus bloody loves concocting his bombs just to blow something the fuck up. But. Sam was holding back and there were too many of them for us to make it. And then when Rufus… Well. I said fuck it and all hell broke loose._

_Sam had lost his phaser. He tore out a Klingon’s throat with his hands. He was rabid, almost. When his hands were occupied he’d bite at them instead._

_He’s the one who found Dean. But I’m telling you,_ we _did not save him. Somebody knew we were coming and left him there for us. I can’t… It just feels wrong._

_**C.** Sam Winchester reported a congruent sentiment. _

_**AK.** Did he._

_…I was hoping Dean was dead. When we saw him. Did you see him?_

_When you find a body like that, nearly unrecognizable, you pray that they’re dead already. That you don’t have to make the choice, to drag it out or to end it there. We don’t see a lot of it, of torture, in this job. At least, not on this ship, these kinds of missions. But it’s… everywhere, anyway. And we don’t involve ourselves. Because keep our agendas and technology and politics away and all that. But Dean did nothing wrong and they took him and we were supposed to just let that be? And maybe we… I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about that, now._

_I just hope I can give him a… good old fraternal clap-on-the-back again._

_**EH.** Hm. _

_**AK.** Tell him we can stop fighting all the time. Not even that mad. _

_**EH.** …Thank you for the report, Ketch. You are dismissed. _

_**AK.** If he’s not there to blackmail me, what have I got to live for? Heh. _

_**EH.** Ketch. _

_**AK.** Alright, yep. Going now. Going to… drink. Castiel, you wanna…? Enemy of my enemy and all that? _

_**C.** No, I… have a patient to attend to shortly. …Um. M—my corpulences._

_**AK.** What?_

_**C.** _ _Cor...condolences._

_**EH. …** We're working on it._

* * *

 **Stardate 10971** — _Now_

The buttons on the helm were yellow and red and blue and white, stark against the black surface of the computer’s counter, and they blinked like little fairy lights beneath Dean’s fingertips. The more he studied the difference in hue between his new shirt sleeve and the amber calibration button, the more he was convinced that what he’d observed in the darkness of the cave was correct: this model of tunic was a muted chartreuse and definitely _not_ gold.

“I owe Garth drinks for a week,” he said unhappily.

“What was that, Lieutenant Commander?” Ellen barked sharply from the captain’s seat behind him.

Dean sat ramrod straight in his chair. He’d been focusing on color theory so hard he’d completely tuned out an order. “Sorry, sir, can you repeat that?”

“I said, course correction, Mister Winchester. We’re drifting a little.”

The bridge’s viewscreen only showed the softly blurred stars of a vessel travelling at a casual Warp 4, but Dean could see on his graph that the _Orion_ was flirting to the portside just slightly. Dean pressed the amber calibration button and adjusted a dial, the starship righting itself smoothly.

Dean glanced to his right at Sam, who, as navigator, shared a position at the helm with him. His brother pretended he hadn’t noticed the slip, too busy wiping nonexistent lint from the crevices of his own pristine buttons.

“If you’re not up to driving…” Claire taunted loudly from her seat at a systems operation station.

“Shut your pie-hole, Novak,” Dean snapped, and stared nobly at the viewscreen, watching the stars blur like he’d never seen anything more interesting in his life, not about to let a nineteen-year-old make him look bad at his job.

Shurlion was one of those Class M planets that looked exactly like Earth if Pangea had broke apart at a different time in different places, complete with big blue oceans, arctic tundras, humid wastelands, and a population of various shades of brown that had nearly polluted their home to death. Besides the fact that the planet was plopped at the edge of a neutral no-starships zone, there was nothing exciting about the trip to return the Ambassador — and at Warp 4, Ellen seemed perfectly content taking her sweet-ass time to get there.

Since staring at his yellow buttons and barely-yellow sleeve for another eight hours was less than invigorating, Dean resorted to playing a round of “how many buttons can I see from this seat” to pass the time. He made it to 187 before catching a glimpse of the science station and performing a bombastic double-take worthy of a laugh track.

In his mind’s eye, Dean still envisioned Rufus Turner attending that corner, peering into the computer screen and muttering angrily as he reorganized his etymology files for the umpteenth time. The man would be so animated with his default surliness, snapping at everybody and everything like a cranky cat, he’d appear as a vibrating blue blur — pressing buttons and flipping switches and scanning graphs and insulting his junior officers profusely. It was a shock to find Castiel there instead, looking more like an experiment in taxidermy than a living being, standing void of any expression but “creepy”.

Castiel caught Dean in his double-take and dipped his chin towards him, his wide blue eyes bugging out beneath his sharp eyebrows. The gesture was undoubtedly intended as a greeting, but came off as a predatory glower of intimidation. Dean had never suffered from sleep paralysis demons like Sam, but he imagined the effect was similar.

Even though the Seraphim were founding members of the Federation, only two had ever joined Starfleet, because they were such a logical, advanced, superior race they’d had no desire to meddle with the mishaps of man. The Seraphim were practicing warp travel for centuries before humans even began sticking their cockpits into other planets’ business. For nearly unhinged religious zealots with centuries-long lifespans who’d formed an entirely militaristic society on their native Elysium, they _were_ remarkably intelligent and deserved the respect and fear others had granted them.

Anael was the first Starfleet Seraph, a tactician who served aboard the USS _Impala_ until she watched Mary Winchester burn. Castiel was the second Starfleet Seraph, hastily assigned to the USS _Orion_ after Rufus Turner took a phaser blast for Sam.

The last thing Dean could still remember from his capture was a horrific image at the moment he was pulled down: Rufus pushing Sam to safety, protecting him from an onslaught of savage aliens, holding that sobbing wreck of a man back as if he were his own child. The last thing Dean could still remember were the tears glistening over Sam’s twisted face and the look in Rufus’ eyes, the promise that shone there, a droning assurance. _I keep my word, boy._ And Sammy was safe. And the last thought, the very last thought Dean could still remember, was of the thrilling embrace Rufus would give him when he escaped from this mess.

The next thing Dean knows, he’s transported two months into the future, and a new guy is staring at him like a slab of meat, and Sammy is safe, and there is no Rufus Turner to hug.

“Captain,” Sam announced, pulling a face at his dashboard. “I’m detecting an oncoming spacecraft.”

Dean pushed away the nauseating anxiety of another mandated “Grief, Trauma, and Your Crew” therapy session with the entire _Orion_ workforce jammed in the meeting hall, and tried to focus on the fairy lights under his fingers.

“How far?” Ellen asked.

“Just under six parsecs,” Sam reported, “but they’re approaching quickly. Should I adjust our course?”

“Wait,” Kevin said from the rear of the bridge, his hand at his earpiece. “I’m picking up hailing frequencies. I think they want to talk.”

Ellen turned. “Who are they?”

“They’re speaking Standard,” Kevin said, light surprise in his voice.

“But I don’t recognize this vessel,” Sam remarked. “Four parsecs. Should I raise shields?”

The captain hesitated long enough for Castiel to jump on the cue.

“Sir,” Castiel turned to Ellen, a distant look in his eyes. “This ship is a Seraphim vessel.” A collective murmur of confusion crossed the bridge as the science officer’s gaze wandered about in thoughtful concentration. “I can sense them. It is… Zachariah and Uriel.”

“I didn’t realize your mental radio thing was so precise,” Ellen commented, referring to the supposed telepathic link Seraphim shared with one another.

Castiel cocked his head, still listening to some energetic wavelength unfelt by human ears or Kevin’s devices. “Not necessarily, but these two I could… recognize anywhere.”

“Helm, pull to a stop,” Ellen ordered, and Dean slowed the _Orion_ to a halt. The Seraphim vessel, a little white thing, was now visible on the screen, approaching at a steady pace.

“Should I reach out to them?” Kevin asked, but before Ellen could respond, Sam practically jumped in his seat.

“Uh, Captain, they’re locking their transporter beam onto our coordinates—”

The turbolift hissed open. All bridge hands turned to see two almost-human men, both bald, both in crisp black formals, waltz in as if they owned the place.

The pale one smirked with crooked lips, revealing a set of glaringly white teeth. His eyes were held open impossibly wide, as if he couldn't remember how to blink, and they pierced right into Dean’s soul in a way that made him feel alarmingly _little._

“Greetings, all.” He was met with stunned silence, and, seemingly pleased, he nodded towards the science officer. “Castiel. You’re looking dapper in powder blue. And I assume you’ve already introduced us.”

“Zachariah,” Castiel greeted him, not making eye contact.

“Then that makes you Uriel,” Ellen spoke, gesturing to the other Seraph, using that tone that Dean envied so deeply — she was pissed and suspicious but it passed as upbeat diplomacy. She rose from her chair, turning to face the Seraphim. She may owe them respect, but this was her ship. “I must ask, is your viewscreen malfunctioning? I’m sure you’re aware of proper inter-ship procedures—”

“Oh, yes, yes,” Zachariah dismissed. “This was simply so important, we just _had_ to deliver the message in person, and of course I thought we should stop by to say hello to baby brother.”

The pale Seraph strode across the bridge, barging past a positively befuddled Kevin, to reach the science station. Castiel looked at Zachariah’s chest instead of his eyes, impassive as a machine, as the taller Seraph looked him up and down.

“We miss you, kiddo,” Zachariah chirped.

“I thought you guys had no emotions,” Dean blurted, immediately smelling the smoke of Ellen’s laser eyes melting holes into the side of his skull.

Zachariah’s unblinking psycho smile was instantly redirected to Dean. “Oh,” he said, “we don't. But some of us have a bit of humor and imagination. Long as it doesn’t get in the way of serving our Celestial Host, right?”

Dean vaguely recognized the term as the Seraphim’s version of a god.

“Of course,” Zachariah continued, “ _you_ unlucky fellows got stuck with the most solemn Seraph in the garrison. Cassie here—” he wrapped an arm around Castiel, squeezing him like an overbearing mother with her preteen son at a family gathering, modulating his voice accordingly, “—is our little teacher’s pet. Aren’t ya?”

“Zachariah,” Uriel warned, his face and tone completely deadpan.

Zachariah conceded and released Castiel from his strong grip. Castiel smoothed his shirt, completely unperturbed, but the second hand humiliation across the bridge even had Claire flushing.

“You must excuse my enthusiasm,” Zachariah said. “I find all of this remarkably amusing.” On _all of this_ the Seraph made a vague, sweeping gesture with his hands, likely referring to the entire bridge and its meek human operators.

“My fellow soldier likes to waste time,” Uriel announced, more a factual statement than an apology.

“I do not waste time I do not have,” Zachariah countered. “But alas, the human attention span is so very brittle.”

“Zachariah, Uriel,” Ellen interjected. “This Seraphim family reunion is certainly welcome, but my point remains that our hailing frequencies were wide open. Had you asked to beam over, we would have honored the request.”

“The thought had not occurred to me,” Uriel admitted.

“It did to me, but I thought it would be pointless, and I was right,” Zachariah said. “I have worked with humans closely — certainly not in such concentration as Castiel — but my position requires me to speak to Starfleet Command on a regular basis. I have therefore learned a few things about getting through to your race.” The pale Seraph looked around the room a bit too eagerly, his eyeballs all but popping out of their sockets. “Eye contact, for one.”

“Yeah, I noticed you’re pretty good at that,” Sam snarked. The little shit was biting back a smile, and when he glanced at Dean with his cheeks quivering, Dean nearly lost it.

“Thank you,” Zachariah said, the sarcasm flying so far over his head it broke a ceiling panel. “On Elysium, eye contact is entirely unnecessary, but I’ve found since you lot lack a telepathic link, substitutions are required. And that is another thing: expressions. Smiling! You love to smile. And you _love_ to _make_ your _voice_ go _up_ and _down_ like _this_.”

Dean glanced at Castiel as Zachariah proudly made a clown of himself in the background. Castiel now seemed to be playing his own game of “how many buttons can I see from this seat”.

Zachariah was moving on to another point he’d learned about humans — some strange quip about the peculiar human culture of a handshake as a greeting and the sexual implications of hand holding on Elysium — but Ellen silenced him.

“Zachariah, I will contact Starfleet if I must.” Her arms were crossed.

The crazy eyes blinked. “Hmm?”

Ellen was practically vibrating, which Dean knew meant she was considering throwing punches to protect her starship. “What was so important you had to tell us in person?”

“We have a mission for you,” Uriel said.

“Our orders come from Starfleet Command,” Ellen said. “We will contact—”

“Starfleet Command will adjust accordingly,” Uriel said. “The matter is rather urgent and should be of little inconvenience to your current mission.”

“Some very important Seraphim artifacts have been stolen,” Zachariah announced. He looked around the room as if expecting a dramatic emotional response. “They are called the Seals of Elysium, and they must be retrieved with all possible effort.”

“The Seals of Elysium have been stolen?” Castiel repeated, his processors stalling.

“Pardon my elementary understanding of Seraphim theology,” Ellen began, “but am I correct that these Seals have a function in your worship?”

Uriel laughed, a violent, barking cackle that could spook a Gorn.

“The Seals are integral to our functionality as a _society_ ,” Zachariah quipped. “They are inscribed with our religious texts, yes, but they also run our schedules, power our homes of worship, simplify our courts… they hold as heavy an engineering and governance responsibility as they do a spiritual one. Of course, I wouldn’t expect your race to understand such an advanced and successfully applied concept.”

It took everything Dean had not to respond with an anecdote about the separation of church and state on Earth.

“Who has stolen the Seals?” Castiel asked. Dean wasn’t sure if _shook_ was an emotion, but Castiel was beginning to look it.

“A travelling saleswoman, and apparently a thief and smuggler, known as Bela Talbot,” Zachariah clarified. “She may have been human once. Had so many illegal genetic alterations, she likely qualifies as her own species entirely.”

“Now an extinct species,” Uriel added. “She has already been arrested, tried, and executed under due Seraphim law.”

“ _Executed?_ ” Ellen exclaimed.

“Under due Seraphim law.” Zachariah smiled grotesquely, then dropped his face to a neutral position identical to that of Uriel and Castiel. “The problem remains: she’d already sold the Seals to eager buyers across the Alpha and Beta quadrants of the galaxy. They are well and truly scattered.”

“Fortunately, before passing, Talbot revealed the names and locations of all her buyers,” Uriel said, gracefully skirting around the obvious role of torture in her confession. “We are not at all concerned about our abilities to retrieve the Seals. We simply… need to rush things along.”

“This is where you come in,” Zachariah said. “Your starship, along with several others out and about across Federation Space, will be responsible for recovering the Seals, by any and all means necessary — barring the cultural interference laws of your Prime Directive — as you go about your other Starfleet-sanctioned missions and scientific explorations. We have other means of taking care of those outside of the Federation’s territory. You are required mostly for, shall we say, loose errands.”

The audacity of these people. Dean was astounded Ellen hadn’t wrung Zachariah’s neck yet, just out of principle. Sucked they’d lost their seals and all, but… they couldn’t possibly be this big of a deal to warrant putting _everybody else’s schedules on hold._

“You claim Starfleet is part of the loop on all this?” Ellen checked in disbelief.

“I claimed Starfleet would _adjust_ ,” Uriel repeated. “We also claimed these missions will be of little inconvenience to you. Our claims are absolute. Seraphim do not lie.”

Ellen scoffed good-naturedly. “We’re currently en route to return the wayward Ambassador Chuck to Shurlion. You might have heard of his entanglement.”

Zachariah nodded. “The Rosencians. A beastly society, yet gorgeous in its simplicity.”

Ellen blinked. “Uh, sure. In any case, he’s certainly eager to get home. And with the Federation’s reliance on Shurlion’s triticale supply, you understand how important it is no incidents occur between—” 

“Captain,” Kevin interrupted. One hand was adjusting his earpiece as the other furiously tapped across the keys. “I am receiving a message from Starfleet Command.”

Zachariah slapped on his God-forsaken smile again. “It appears Naomi has succeeded in relaying our intentions,” he said.

“Put them on screen,” Ellen ordered Kevin

“They aren’t… I mean, it’s just orders, Captain,” the communications officer said, brow furrowed deeply over his dark, darting eyes. “There’s an… ‘understanding’. We’re… we’re to do as the Seraphim wish, until further notice.” Kevin put his hand down and glanced around the bridge awkwardly. “The President backs the order. That’s all they said.”

Dean glanced at Sam, who mouthed a subtle _the fuck._ Although Dean felt the same way, he had to admit he understood that not everybody felt so uneasy about Seraphim as he and his brother did. The Federation wouldn’t exist without them, regardless of how antisocial they were. Of course they were obliged to help.

But just because he understood didn’t mean he liked it one bit.

Ellen evidently concurred, but her discomfort went entirely unregistered by the icy aliens on the bridge. She straightened her shoulders and took a breath.

“So,” she forced a respectful smile. “What are your orders?”

Zachariah clapped his hands with shamelessly bad rhythm. “I am so very glad you asked.”

* * *

The landing party was no joke this time around. Ellen herself was beaming down, along with Nurse Mills (as Bobby refused to shut up about molecular displacement sickness every time he had to use the transporter machine), Ketch, and of course, Castiel. Filling out the team were a security officer named Mick Davies, the formidable Charlie, and the Winchesters. Kevin remained contentedly in his seat on the bridge. Jo, presumably, was still grounded.

Sam had visibly flinched when Ellen announced Dean was joining the party, and Dean could tell it was because this was _obviously_ not the ho-hum milk run they’d organized for him and Jo the day before.

“I mean, don’t, uh… don’t you want Dean taking the helm?” Sam had stuttered stupidly. “He’s third officer, and all—”

“Ash has it,” Ellen had answered flatly. The glance she threw Dean explained everything. Her brown eyes were slightly twisted; she wasn’t quite ready to bring Dean on an unpredictable mission, either. But Dean was sure his face was red with fury and humiliation. He was itching to breathe in some foreign planet’s oxygen again, and it wasn’t like he was trying to hide it. Dean would be throwing himself back into harm's way eventually, and Ellen would rather him be doing it on her terms.

So here they were: wandering through a mess of tall grass and boulders and steep, maze-like hills, looking for any kind of clue besides the Seraphim Telepathic Superhighway to assist in the recovery of Seal Number One. The planet was some Class M globe of little importance in a solar system of even less importance, but it happened to be the location of the closest Seal; only a few light-years off the _Orion's_ present course. The Shurlion mission would be delayed by an hour, at most.

Dean adjusted his tricorder strap, having yet to form any muscle memory with the equipment, and bumped his shoulder into Castiel’s from behind. The Seraph glanced at him like he was carrying disease.

“So, Cas,” Dean began, tuning a dial on his machine to better track the sparkly rocks littering the ground. He had no idea what he was looking for, and these felt as good a place to start as any. “I didn’t know you’re a little brother.”

“I am not,” Castiel said. “That is quite a peculiar assumption.”

“But Zachariah called you ‘baby brother’.”

Castiel sighed. “We aren’t… brothers. Not like you and Lieutenant Winchester. It is different on Elysium. We are a Family, for although we have different parents, we descend from the same Father. We are born, we mate, we die, yet we are all only children. Still, everybody on Elysium is a ‘brother’. It is very… spiritual. The term is far more precise in Enochian.”

Dean thought about that for a second. “But you’re a baby?”

It may have been a trick of the light, but it looked as if Castiel was clenching his jaw. “Zachariah is much older than I am; several centuries at least. I am not an infant, but I do still have time to acquire. Zachariah did not have such a prestigious position at so young an age. My status is illogical. It vexes him.

“If it’s so illogical, shouldn’t it vex you, too?” Dean pried, grinning.

“My position vexes me as well,” Castiel replied carefully, “but I have deduced, by logic, it is rather the company I am in that is the root of that problem.”

Dean glared at Cas, well aware he’d just been insulted.

“Just for the record,” he snapped, “Zachariah’s not the only one _vexed_ by you being here.”

Castiel had turned away mid-sentence. “Mister Winchester, I am in the middle of a radial scope, and I must focus. And please remember my name is Castiel, not Cas.”

The dismissal left Dean irked and still stuffed with questions he wanted to ask about Zachariah and Uriel and this stupid freaking treasure hunt for some stupid freaking prayer medallions. This mission did, however, beat hours of boredom on the bridge, no matter how much of a buzzkill the science officer was. And it wasn’t even a pity mission this time.

Dean switched gears, wandering over to Sam and yanking up a frequency on his tricorder to screw with the readings on his brother’s machine. Sam elbowed Dean in the side and gave him the evil eye. Dean elbowed him back. Sam swiftly kicked him in the shin. _Just like old times._

“Castiel,” Ellen said. “Any luck on locating the Seal? What can you… hear? See?”

Castiel’s brow was furrowed, one hand lifted to his temple. “It is well shielded. But there is a distinct pulse of energy I can detect in the east. We are nearby.”

"My sensors indicate several buildings beyond these hills," Sam said, shoving past a still-kicking Dean to show his readings to Ellen.

The landing party gathered, sharing their findings and discussing a plan of action.

"I believe," Ketch announced after several minutes of debate, "we should storm the buildings and take them by surprise."

Dean concurred, and, having heard enough of the conversation and being a fairly poor contributor to it, took the opportunity to slip away behind a boulder and get a better view of these mysterious buildings. He began following the curve of an abrupt hill down for about a hundred yards until he came up behind another boulder. Peering around the edge, he found he was just outside of a dark stone building. Tricorders were great and all, but there was nothing like a little look-see to help form a proper plan.

At the top of the hill, Sam was too confused by what his tricorder was now registering to have noticed his brother disappear from his side.

"This planet's population is a peaceful one," Castiel was insisting. "They would not fight back."

"I’m not convinced spontaneously stealing back the Seal is our best option," Ellen shook her head.

"Could we just talk to them?" Charlie asked. "Maybe _buy_ the Seal back?"

"Do you have any idea how much the Seals must have sold for?" Castiel said. "That would be a highly improbable solution."

Jody shrugged. "If I don't have to patch anybody up when you go storming in, I'm all for it."

"They may not fight back, but there are still traps set up around the perimeter," Sam observed, finally decoding what he’d found on his tricorder. "I just picked up some really bizarre readings... I think something has been set off down the hill..."

Dean, meanwhile, was loitering by his boulder, struggling to read his tricorder in the shadows. He twisted a knob, honing in on a strange energy he had just picked up on. Although it was weak, as if the signal was under interference, Dean could tell the unique signature and high gracion levels meant it was a sign of the Seal.

Dean craned his neck towards the back of the building, hoping to find a door or a window to bust through, but then noticed a different reading on his tricorder, one signaling the presence of some kind of underground equipment. Dean instantly recognized it as the makings of a trap. As Dean started to calculate the range and position of the equipment, an echoing voice in his mind jarred his concentration.

_You won’t be long, Dean._

Dean shook his head, his vision suddenly blurry, and tried to focus on the traps.

“Traps?” Ketch was repeating, instinctively reaching for his phaser. Charlie and Mick mirrored his action.

“Long ago, these people engaged in a civil war,” Castiel said. “Although they’re a pacifist society now, some of their old traps may still be buried and active. It would be a logical place to store an expensive and illegal purchase.”

“So, we’ll storm, but we’ll do so with caution,” Ellen sighed. “Ketch, Mick, Jody, I’ll take you up around that hill to study those buildings, and you four will head down there. Analyze the traps and then report back to me, and we’ll formulate an infiltration strategy. Got it?”

“Understood,” Castiel, Sam, and Charlie nodded.

The team had made it but ten yards apart when Sam froze.

“Where the _fuck_ is Dean?!” He shouted.

Dean was in hell. He had no idea what was happening; one moment he’d been hiding in the shade of his boulder, using his tricorder to plot a path through the deadly traps, the next moment it was as if he’d been paralyzed in his own mind. The world around him spun in and out of focus, clipping between the scene of a building in grassy hills to a dark room filled with leering faces. His limbs were stiff, his pulse was pounding, he helplessly dropped to his knees as a voice echoed through his head.

_Nobody walks free, Dean._

His body seized with inexplicable fear and he fell to the side, the tricorder flying from his hands and landing on a very particularly bad spot on the ground, one that Dean had clearly marked on his map of traps as a trigger. In that moment, lucidity came rushing back, just as something whooshed through the air and Dean felt a sharp punch in the stomach.

Up on the hilltop, just as Sam shouted Dean’s name, a piercing scream echoed over the hills. Sam took off running towards the sound, footsteps of his crewmates behind him, but it was too late.

A giant spike had shot from a hidden cannon on the side of the hill, pinning Dean to the ground by a dark building, impaling the older Winchester through his gut. His tricorder was tossed to the side, his golden shirt darkening rapidly around the iron pole inside him. Sam fell at his brother’s side and pawed at his brother’s face, light-headed with grief and denial. Dean fluttered his eyes open weakly.

“Bobby… not… my nipples…” Dean wheezed, and went limp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter summary:  
> If Castiel had known the flayed body they’d recovered would one day cause him so much bewilderment, he would not have been so enthusiastic to assist in healing it.
> 
> [11/22/2020 UPDATE: I published this months before Dean ended up being violently impaled by a big rusty iron pole and holy fuck I apologize for any flashbacks it might trigger in new readers. I promise, I promise on my cat's grave, this one ends well. This was not foreshadowing or a reference to canon. It was simply a terribly unfunny (okay kind of funny) coincidence.]
> 
> I'm sorry it took so long to get this up, but for some reason I had it in my head that the chapters have to be super long. I think from now on I might be sacrificing chapter length to achieve more frequent updates, but we'll see how it pans out.
> 
> This story is so self-indulgent and I hope the nerdiness of it doesn't scare people away too much. I'm super excited for the next chapter! I began this fic with a really intricate idea for the plot and I finally figured out the ~lore~ to back it up. Oh yeah, it's all coming together. This is gonna be so angsty and romantic.


	3. Patterns of Force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Castiel had known the flayed body they’d recovered would one day cause him so much bewilderment, he would not have been so enthusiastic to assist in healing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got so wrapped up in hunter lingo I forgot how much they say "aye" in the original series. They're not pirates I promise!

**Stardate 10971** — _Now_

Up to and including the moment the landing party heard Dean’s scream, Castiel was in the process of compiling a list of the confounding perplexities of humankind.

The archive was visualized like a flow chart in Castiel’s mind: a smorgasbord of boxed categories and lengthy bulletins woven together with color-coded arrows. There was a section on gender roles, an article on eating habits, and a stipulation on humans’ jarring lack of proper instincts, but by far the largest portion of Castiel’s list of conundrums was dedicated to the concept of emotion.

The Winchesters had become, so to speak, the Cavia porcellus of this concentration of his studies.

It was fascinating to observe the differences between the brothers. Sam wore his hair in a way just shy of breaking several regulations, whereas Dean was the model of the clean-shaven, neatly trimmed Starfleet officer in human textbooks. Sam rarely caused a scene, yet impetuously complained about the existence of Starfleet and his role in it in private. Dean was as unpredictable as a live wire, yet was one of Starfleet’s most highest-valued officers. Sam displayed obvious trust in Castiel, while Dean, who had Castiel’s hands to thank for his mended body, did not.

This did not offend Castiel; he was not capable of offense. He simply grew more confused with every moment he spent around the Winchesters. They were like an impossible logic puzzle given on Elysium to test soldiers’ battlefield thinking abilities. Castiel was certain that if it had been part of _his_ final test, he would not have passed.

Humans were difficult, but Dean was _irritating_ , and Castiel would not mind that so much if he had a scientific explanation as to _why_. Lieutenant Novak and Ensign Harvelle displayed the same attitude and Ensign Tran could be even more insufferable, yet Dean… _Dean_ was the one who burdened Castiel’s logic like satellite interference, throwing incoherent gibberish into the Seraph’s thought process.

For the past twenty-four hours, Castiel had been suffering from a particularly strong migraine. The timing coincided precisely with the moment he had beamed down to Rosencia and witnessed Dean doing stealthy somersaults between buildings for no reason other than his own amusement. As Doctor Singer had patched Dean up in sickbay afterward, and as Castiel had checked the helmsman’s mind for damage, he had nearly lost all his focus due to the electric buzzing beneath his skin. Once Dean had returned to the bridge, Castiel had borrowed Doctor Singer’s equipment to determine if he was, perhaps, allergic to the older Winchester.

Results were indeterminate.

Dean’s anguished scream echoing over the grassy hills both worsened Castiel’s headache and contributed several more frustrating bullets to his ever-lengthening list. As he followed Dean’s brother down the hill, Castiel pondered, for neither the first nor last time, why any recovering ex-torturee would be so desperate to get back into action if they were going to be this reckless about it.

Sam fell to his knees at Dean’s side and Castiel remained a few steps back, observing the thin length of metal skewering the helmsman to the ground. He checked his tricorder to verify the presence of any remaining trap triggers before approaching the brothers and kneeling beside them.

“...Nipples,” Dean was saying, and then dropped his head back, eyelids fluttering shut. Castiel discretely touched the flesh around Dean’s wound, concentrating on the damage, while Sam shook Dean’s shoulders and began to cry.

Castiel found the performance tiring on all accounts. He had already healed Dean from much worse.

Castiel gently pushed Dean’s brother aside and gripped the iron spike, extracting the length from Dean’s abdomen in one smooth slide, and tossed it away. Castiel lifted the bloody tunic and pressed his hand against the hot, gaping wound. After a few seconds of exertion, Castiel felt the warm, static sensation of healing flesh under his palm and, suddenly, Dean was shoving him away.

“What the _hell,_ man?” Dean hollered, sitting upright, green eyes wide and mortified.

Castiel’s head was spinning from the amount of energy he’d used to repair the damage. He feebly gestured toward the discarded bloody spike.

“That’s so _violating!_ ” Dean shuddered. Castiel only had the strength to catch his breath and pull himself to his feet. He turned to Captain Harvelle and the rest of the landing party, who were now gathered at the base of the bluff.

“Lieutenant Commander Winchester was impaled,” he reported, his voice still a bit faint, but it seemed most of them had seen that part, anyway. Fear was an easy emotion to identify in humans, and Castiel was registering it in the eyes of most of the crew. Captain Harvelle was especially agitated, murmuring a _that’s just great_ to Castiel before brushing past him to help Dean to a standing position.

“That bastard healed me,” Dean snapped.

“What were you doing down here, Mister?” Captain Harvelle shot back. Dean averted his eyes.

“I swear I was just getting some readings—”

“Dean, I had _just_ found the underground traps when you ran off,” Sam squawked. “What were you thinking? I could have helped you, you could have _died_ —”

“I found the traps, too, dumbass!” Dean yelled.

Harvelle stuck her index finger in Dean’s face. “You watch your tone, son.” Dean swallowed, and the captain narrowed her eyes. “Get away from the building, we’re all exposed here.”

As he observed Harvelle marching Dean towards the group with Sam close behind them, Castiel caught Nurse Mill’s eye. He approximated her current emotional state to be a combination of doubt and anxiety.

“I didn’t see the logic in waiting for a temporary balm,” he explained hastily. “You may scan him, of course, but he is healed.”

Jody blinked. “No, I, uh, believe you. I’m glad you stepped in. I’m sure he’s fine, but I’ll check, just to be certain.”

She hurried to Dean. Castiel turned back towards the building, thinking of Naomi’s mantras. _Control your variables, protect your assembly._ He studied the positions of the spike, the hidden cannon in the hillside that was now smoking slightly, and the tricorder that Dean had, for some reason, flung away. Castiel observed his own tricorder again to verify he wasn’t stepping on any traps before gingerly picking up Dean’s equipment. As he did so, his headache surged.

It wasn’t related to anything human this time, though, because Castiel’s ears were ringing faintly, the whites in his field of vision glowing just a little brighter. The Seal was nearby. Castiel looked around, studying the lone black building and the hills it was nestled in, before returning to the group with Dean’s tricorder.

“Son of a bitch should at least ask my permission,” Dean was griping as Nurse Mills hovered a scanner over his belly. He made eye contact with Castiel and curled his lip at him.

“He saved your life,” Sam pressed, still leaking tears, which Castiel found even more unnecessary than earlier; after all, Dean was _alive_. He decided to classify the crying as a panic response and added it to his list under the same division as Ensign Tran’s many phobias.

“Okay, Sammy, I’m alive, you can stop crying now,” Dean said stiffly.

So humans _did_ understand that crying was illogical? Castiel’s list expanded by another bullet point — as did his headache.

“What exactly were you trying to do?” Captain Harvelle repeated.

“Besides disprove the redshirt theory,” Lieutenant Commander Bradbury butted in brightly. “I mean, you were accident-prone before, but now you wear gold, and on your _second_ mission — okay, I get it, not helping.”

“I was _just_ looking around,” Dean spat in the general direction of the captain. “And I’m not an idiot, I was plotting out the traps, it wasn’t like I was just gonna _barge_ in there—”

“So why did you?” Harvelle asked.

“I didn’t,” Dean insisted. His fingers ghosted over the bloodstain on his tunic and he glanced at Castiel. “No, I… kind of had an… accident…” Dean forced out an awkward laugh. “ _No_ but it’s all better now, really, I don’t even know what it was. I’m sure I’m fine. No biggie.”

Sam’s mouth was hanging open. “An _accident?_ Are you… is it your head?”

“What? _No,_ ” Dean scoffed, but even Castiel could detect the doubt in his tone. “I started picking up some strange signals and — _look_ , Commander Castiel has my tricorder, he’ll tell you!”

Castiel held up the tricorder in confirmation. “Lieutenant Commander Winchester is telling the truth,” he reported. “He’s plotted all the traps around this area of the building. And these gracion readings — he's found strong evidence of the Seal."

Dean sighed in relief. “There, see? I did y’all a favor.”

“Strong evidence?” Harvelle addressed Castiel pointedly. “And you can confirm this?”

Castiel nodded, the ringing in his ears still tinny and distant, but distinct. “The Seal is nearby. Perhaps not in this very building, but with the evidence here,” he looked back to the tricorder, “you could easily find it even without my senses.”

“Spectacular,” Harvelle said. “That means you can escort Dean back upstairs.”

“What?” Dean yelped.

“What?” Castiel blinked a millisecond later.

“No chances,” Harvelle said, approaching Castiel and taking the tricorder from his hands. She handed it to Mister Ketch, who seemed to be enjoying watching the drama unfold. “Castiel, your orders are to take Dean up to sickbay, do your routine thing, and then report back to me.”

“Aye, sir,” Castiel said, then hesitated. “With all due respect, recovering the Seals is a somewhat personal issue—”

“As are Dean’s psychological problems,” Harvelle countered.

“I’m right here,” Dean grumbled.

She ignored him. “Look, if he’s healthy, you come right back down here, quick and easy. If something’s wrong with him, I’ll need you there to handle it anyway. Understood?”

Castiel nodded, even though the thought of abandoning a sacred Seal of Elysium to a team of only human rescuers made his skin crawl. “Aye, sir. That is logical.”

“Now, _you_ ,” she pivoted to Dean, “are confined to quarters as soon as you’re released from sickbay. Got it?”

Dean looked like he was about to explode. “Aye, sir.”

After Castiel and Dean made their way up the hill and got in position for beam-up, Castiel observed the redshirts Ketch, Davies, and Bradbury huddled around Dean’s tricorder, presumably formulating a strategy based on his findings. Sam was debating something with Harvelle, gesturing towards Dean. She shook her head at him and he backed off, but still seemed pensive.

“He’s saying it should be _him_ taking me up, and not you,” Dean translated. Castiel spared a glance at him. Anger was even easier to identify than fear. Especially on a human like Dean, who could twist his facial features into rather ferocious positions.

In the brief transition of their atoms from the planet’s surface to the _Orion,_ Castiel was thinking. He disliked the mind-readings just as much as Dean did, if not more so. Castiel did not know how to explain to Dean how much easier they would be if he stopped treating him like a threat.

Castiel had learned at the Academy that humans formed trust with others who initiated physical contact. As he and Dean started to step off their landing pads, Castiel trusted an instinct, and reached out to softly touch his shoulder while they walked.

Dean spun on him, swatting Castiel’s hand away. “Stop friggin’ touching me, you _creep_!”

Castiel recalculated his approach at light speed. Unlike Zachariah, he found it illogical to overcompensate for a lack of empathy — it would be more effective to lean into it.

Castiel took a step into Dean’s personal space. “I do not obey your orders,” he rumbled, cocking his head, “and you do not give them.”

Dean blanched. The shift in energy was so electric Castiel could taste it.

“You should show me some respect,” Castiel narrowed his eyes, feeling his stiff muscles relax slightly. “I dragged you out of your deathbed. I could throw you back in.”

Dean looked down, properly flustered, and Castiel was satisfied. The helmsman followed him to sickbay wordlessly. He did not bother to touch him again; building trust was just going to have to wait. And although his headache and the itchy buzzing beneath his skin had subsided a bit, Castiel was still concerned with how much longer he could remain civil.

* * *

 **Stardate 2525** — _23 Years Ago_

“His name is Azazel,” the pretty lady said. “He is a Klingon extremist.”

Dad’s face was limp, grayish, like all the tears he’d cried yesterday had wrung him totally dry. Like a washcloth. Like a juicebox sucked thin.

Sammy was asleep in Dean’s arms, bald and happy. Dean wondered what “extremist” meant. Azazel was a pretty name. The pretty lady also had a pretty name, but Dean couldn’t remember it. Anna… or Ella… or something.

“You’re going after him, then?” Dad asked. His voice was croaky. He still smelled like smoke, but Dean had been breathing through his mouth all day so it wouldn’t bother him so much.

“No,” Anna said. Her flaming red hair was twisted up like a giant pretzel on her head. “Not me personally. Azazel is on the Federation watchlist. Starfleet has a trained squadron dispatched to intercept him. I will be leaving the _Impala_ to take over Commander Winchester’s research.”

“Her name was Mary,” Dad muttered. Dean looked back up at him. Mary was Momma’s other name, the one that Dad called her. And Starfleet — whatever it was, Momma stuck it in all her bedtime stories. _Angels are watching over you. Angels in red and gold and blue, seeking out new life, and new civilizations, boldly going where no man has gone before_ …

“Even though she was on extended leave, the Federation is posthumously awarding Mary the Martyr of Science Award,” Anna said. She never blinked. Her eyes were bigger and bluer than any eyes Dean had ever seen. “You should be proud. I'm sure you are aware of how indispensable her research was to interplanetary communications in the delta quadrant. She died a hero.”

Suddenly Dad jerked forward, grabbing Anna by the front of her shirt. Dean jumped. He felt his face crumple and he tried not to cry. Anna’s shirt was yellowish… greenish… like when he got sick in the toilet after eating too many cake pops. Through his tears, he focused on the little patch on Anna’s shirt. Momma had one of those on her red shirt, the one she kept in the closet, that Dean always begged to try on. _I’m going back one day, but no time soon. I’ve got my own little aliens to look after._

“Mary did not have to die,” Dad said. He sounded so angry. Mary was Momma. Momma did not have to die. Dean watched Sammy sleeping in his arms. Breathe in, breathe out. Dean’s tongue and teeth were very dry.

“Sometimes,” Anna said calmly, like a lullaby, “the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one.”

“One little redshirt,” Dad snarled. “You Seraph bitch.”

Dad was tired. Dean was tired, too. Neither of them had slept since the fire, not without nightmares of Momma’s screams.

Sammy stirred. Dean pretended, for a moment, that he was Momma, with a red shirt in the closet and a bedtime story in her head, and rocked Sammy back to sleep.

* * *

 **Stardate 10971** — _Now_

When the sickbay doors slid open, Castiel nearly had to shoot Doctor Singer with a relaxation hypo just to keep him from wringing Dean’s neck. After a litany of curses, insults, and _what’d I say, ya friggin’ idjit_ s, the doctor finally calmed himself down enough to laugh at Dean’s morose pout and Castiel’s exasperated glower. Dean got up on the sickbed with his arms crossed, refusing to meet Castiel’s eyes, and Doctor Singer got to scanning.

Castiel’s role as a healer was a complex one. It seemed obvious that an individual with such useful abilities should use them when needed, but Castiel was the _science_ officer, not a medic. Although his education was extensive in xenobiology and alien physiology, Castiel’s actual talents were based on instinct and nature, not study and practice. Castiel’s presence was what humans called a “blessing” in case of injuries in the field, but without a doctor’s extended assistance, he was merely a walking bandage.

A Seraph could heal almost anything. But the greater the injury, the greater the toll healing took on the Seraph. And the greater the chances were he would get something wrong.

Dean was lucky to have been impaled where he had been; any higher or to the side and he would have had vertebrae that needed fixing — which Castiel _could_ have healed, with the cost of knocking himself out cold for a good thirty minutes, and still required Singer’s services to mend the nerves around the wound. Instead the spike had pierced only organs, which Castiel believed he was particularly gifted at healing, as he could repair them to near perfection with a very efficient energy loss ratio.

According to Doctor Singer’s analysis, Dean would be fine, but his new and improved intestines would require an especially gentle diet for a while.

“I get that you were just trying to help,” Doctor Singer said to Dean after Castiel had completed his report of the incident and the helmsman’s condition had been updated in the medical logs. “But what in the world could make you just… _set off_ a trigger you _knew_ was there?”

Dean stared at the wall glumly.

“Mister Winchester refuses to provide details on what caused his accident,” Castiel said.

“That sounds awfully suspicious,” Singer said, raising an eyebrow. He sighed and gestured to the helmsman with a nod at Castiel. “G’wan in there.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Dean blurted, flinching away from the hand Castiel was reaching towards him. “You got a warrant?”

“You know damn well he does,” Singer retorted.

Dean was pale. “So he’s just gonna ransack my head every time you think I’m lying to you now?”

Singer pursed his lips, as if considering it, and then dropped the expression and threw his hands in the air with exasperation. “You were _impaled,_ y a idjit. And you don’t get that look in your eye unless _you’re_ scared. We gotta know what’s up so that we can help you. So, _trust me,_ you’re in no position to deny either of us the right to save your life.”

Dean opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again, fiddling with the bloodied hem of his shirt. He glanced in Castiel’s direction through his long lashes, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

“How about I just tell you what I saw,” Dean said, softer. “I mean, if I do… will you stay out of my head?”

Castiel found that a bit ridiculous, as, depending on what Dean had seen, it was likely Castiel would be asked to go back into his head to mend that damage anyway. But Doctor Singer seemed moved by Dean’s words.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Singer said gently, putting a hand on Dean’s arm. Dean did not recoil, nor did he call him a “creep.” Castiel felt a hot twinge in his stomach, jolting him enough to disrupt his thought process. It was likely just a side effect of his impatience to return to the mission. “I would rather you tell us yourself, Dean. If you’re communicating, I’m trusting you.” The doctor turned his gaze to Castiel for his opinion. “Commander?”

Castiel studied Dean, his pulse pounding in his head with the prolonged eye contact. He needed to get away from this human for his _own_ well-being.

“I would rather ‘ransack’ your mind with your permission,” he answered honestly.

Dean laughed, which was so startling Castiel actually flinched.

“Wow, maybe I shoulda spilled my feelings a lot sooner,” Dean chuckled. “Woulda saved us a lotta headaches!”

“Yes, it would have,” Castiel said flatly.

Dean made a face. Castiel decided the man was hideous.

“So, Dean,” Doctor Singer prompted.

“Yeah.” Dean snapped back into focus, fiddling with his shirt again. “Yeah, I’ll tell you what I saw. I, um…”

The helmsman thudded the heel of his boot against the trunk of the biobed while his mind worked. Castiel was not sure if he was searching for the words to describe his accident, if he was having emotional difficulty reliving it, or if he was struggling to remember it at all. It would be so much easier if Castiel just put his hand on Dean’s face and sifted through his memories — quick, surgical, simple. Castiel would be out of sickbay and back to retrieving the Seal in less than a minute.

Right as Castiel’s hand, frozen to his side, was beginning to twitch, Dean spoke up.

“I don’t really know _what_ I saw,” Dean said, brow furrowed. “There were flashes, just silhouettes and a dark room, pretty, uh, pretty nondescript.” He swallowed. “I know I heard a voice. A twisted, almost… _cartoony_ voice? Like, uh, like _‘Pull the lever, Kronk’_ type cartoony, but definitely a male voice, and, uh… don’t know what exactly he said, really. But, you know, it was totally creepy.”

Castiel was busy processing both the obscure Earthling reference and Dean’s second daily usage of the word “creepy”, so Doctor Singer responded first.

“These were unprompted flashbacks?” Singer checked.

Dean shrugged. “I sure as hell don’t know what woulda prompted ‘em.”

“And how did they lead to your impalement?” Singer asked.

“I guess, uh,” Dean looked like he really didn’t know. “I think I just freaked out for a second, thought I was being attacked or something.”

“You guess and you think?” Castiel quoted, finding his tongue in Standard again. He had not intended for the question to come off so (as humans sometimes described it) impolite, but they couldn't afford uncertainties, and were wasting time. Castiel could have singled out the incident by now if Dean weren’t so fickle.

Dean made a face again, twisting his upper lip and bobbing his head dramatically.

“I _deduced_ , using _logic_ ,” he spat, in an obscene imitation of Castiel’s earlier words, “that I must have _conducted myself_ as if I was _imperiled._ Was that any clearer?"

“Aye, you're very clear, kid,” Doctor Singer cut in, terminating the tense staring contest. He shook his head at Dean softly, the way Captain Harvelle often shook her head at Joanna, before addressing Castiel. “What do we think, Commander?”

Castiel turned to the doctor, trying to calm Naomi’s mantra repeating in his head — _fascination over frustration_ — and told him the truth.

“Dean is at potential risk for further flashbacks,” Castiel said. “I could remove this memory from Dean’s mind with the hope of delaying further leakage, but if this flashback was triggered by something, the precaution may prove useless, as we will ultimately want to isolate what causes the recollections. And, as Dean greatly dislikes having his thoughts examined, it may be wise to spare him the discomfort until that is truly necessary.”

“You sure?” Doctor Singer asked. “Not that I’m disagreeing with you, but being a Seraph and all, I thought you’d… be more in tune with the overkill alignment when it comes to safety.”

“Dean has not reported any specific vivid memories,” Castiel said. He thought of a half-dead body soaking a biobed with crimson, of a splintered arm, of the nonsense words and sobbing babble spewing out of the victim’s chapped and bleeding lips. He glanced at Dean. His arms were crossed and his lips pouty. “I do not need to read his mind to verify that he’s telling the truth.”

Doctor Singer nodded, likely thumbing through the same mental images to compare to the specimen before them. “Well, I concur. Okey-dokey, then.” He waved Dean away with a heavy sigh. “Get lost, kid.”

Castiel followed the helmsman out, only pausing briefly to ensure the man was heading in the direction of his quarters, before spinning on his heel and marching back towards the transporter room. Although his headache almost immediately cleared once he was alone, his thoughts scrambling back into their chilled, contained compartments, Castiel found himself now plagued with another ailment: a ringing in his ears and a whitening of his vision. The Seal was either nearby or in immediate danger.

When Castiel rounded the corner to reach the transporter room, he received an answer in the form of Captain Harvelle emerging from the sliding doors with her landing party in tow. Sam Winchester stood beside her, his arms full with a large, engraved stone box. The moment he laid eyes on it, Castiel’s head rang with a disarmingly beautiful _ping_.

“Castiel, we managed— are you alright?” Captain Harvelle asked as Castiel froze and touched his temple.

“I am fine,” Castiel reported, blinking away the pleasant ringing. When he looked at the Seal’s engraved container again, his head remained silent. “That is normal. It’s a… profound bond between my people and… How did you find it? I was making haste to join the recovery team.”

Harvelle smiled at him with a strange tilt of her head. Castiel almost regretted that he couldn’t understand what that look meant. He glanced at Sam, who was still hovering with the Seal cradled in his arms. Castiel restrained himself from going up to him and checking over its contents for damage or tampering. Naomi’s mantras took over again. _Faith in the Father, faith in his children._

“Turns out Zachariah was telling the truth,” Harvelle said. “The mission was pretty simple, after all.”

“Seraphim do not lie,” Castiel recited automatically.

“Suppose he didn’t anticipate our tendency for accidents, though,” Harvelle remarked. “How is that clutz doing, anyway?”

Sam took a few steps forward at the mention of Dean, his thin eyebrows scrunched up tight on his forehead.

“Dean is fully healed," Castiel said, "although Doctor Singer has prescribed a diet of bland foods for the next three days—"

“And his head?” Sam jumped on the question before Castiel could get to that part.

“Dean has had a flashback,” Castiel said.

Sam swallowed hard. “About... the Rack?”

“Yes,” Castiel said.

Captain Harvelle held up a finger to Castiel, then waved away the rest of the landing party, ordering them to stations and the mess hall. She turned back to Castiel and put her hands on her hips. “So, what do we do?”

Castiel cocked his head. “He did not remember anything specific yet. If he continues to flash back, I will… step in. But he is highly opposed to my help.”

Sam scoffed, looking up at the ceiling. His eyes were glistening. This human cried a great deal. “He’s such an ungrateful jerk.”

“Maybe,” Harvelle muttered. “But he doesn’t even know what he should be grateful for.” She glanced to Sam, and then to Castiel. “And I hope he never knows.”

Castiel did as well; it would be much more complicated to deal with a walking headache constantly displaying gratitude towards him than it would be to deal with a walking headache functioning on a foundation of ignorance and sarcasm. It was much easier to be a Seraph on a ship full of humans when the humans weren’t attempting to form “emotional bonds” with him. The way Sam looked at him, with his eyebrows knotted up and his face so horrifically open and tender, was stressful enough.

“Castiel, if you could take the Seal to your quarters for safekeeping,” Captain Harvelle said.

Castiel gave a curt nod, accepting the heavy chest from Sam. “Aye, sir. I will see you on the bridge.”

He walked away down the hall, flooded with an irkingly human relief at the realization he would finally be alone.

Sam watched the Seraph leave and, when Ellen began to walk in the opposite direction, he held out a hand to stop her. “Wait. I have a, um, proposal, Captain.”

“A proposal?” Harvelle raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah.” Sam gritted his teeth and winced. “And I don’t think my brother’s gonna like it.”

* * *

Dean didn’t spend much time in his own quarters. There was always something else to do: chess with Charlie in the recreation room, workouts with Ketch in the gym, technical journals with Ash in the chief engineer’s quarters, people-watching with Garth and Jo in the chapel. Therefore, Dean had very little _to_ do while serving his time-out.

He paced for what felt like hours, hoping to burn off some of his restlessness. He was surprised at how easily he had lied to Bobby and Castiel about not understanding what the voice had told him. The words rang clear as a red alert alarm. _You won’t be long. Nobody walks free, Dean_.

The eeriest part was he had no idea if it was actually a flashback or worse: some kind of a vision. Or _worse_ -worse, a real-time broadcast he was somehow tuned into.

“Or I made it up completely,” Dean mused, and somehow that was worse-worse-worse.

But Castiel was right; aside from those words, Dean didn’t remember enough to be any more bothered yet about his deep-freeze trauma. He had already assumed he’d been tortured in a dark room and that there must’ve been creepy silhouettes taunting him, so… it wasn’t dangerous to confirm that had actually happened, right?

And for now, it was fantastic that the Seraph seemed to be at least somewhat on his side about the whole mind-reading thing. Even though — _Jesus._ Dean touched his stomach, thought of his sore shoulder and tight muscles, and felt a chill over his skin. Dean knew Castiel was doing his job and all, but he still couldn’t help but _doubt._

Because John Winchester was staring at him, always, from the wall adjacent to his bed, posed in a blood-red tunic. Judging. Dean didn’t need to be told he was a disappointment, but it wasn’t until after his father died that he felt so awful about it. All those years training for the Academy, he had disappointed him: floundering missions, making mistakes, not stepping in like he could have when Sammy dropped out for more Terran-bound studies.

Now, losing the red tunic was one thing — _you’re a legacy, kid_ — but if Dad knew his whole body had been reconstructed by a Seraph?

Maybe Dad was just stubborn and traumatized. _Shifty bastards corrupted everything_. Dean had been too young to have any idea what Dad was saying back then, and after Dad’s wayward Azazel-hunting spree, when Starfleet reabsorbed the Winchesters into their masses, Dad had stopped saying it. Because he had missions to focus on. And the horror stories about the Seraphim that Dad told Dean were far outweighed by the horror stories about the Klingons. But distrusting the Klingons went without saying.

 _“Anael,” John spat, his hands shaking. “Backstabbing bitch.”_ When they had grown up a little, the brothers talked about it. Sam said what she’d done was unforgivable, perhaps, but understandable, and Dean insisted it was inhuman, disgusting, wrong. And then Dad died and Dean had realized the opinions he held weren’t exactly his own and now everything was so much more complicated than it once had been.

Dean paced and paced and paced. Control. Maybe he had no control over his life right now — which, _whatever_ , it’s not like he ever did — but he could control himself. Just enough to avoid any more freaking mind readings, to stop racking up reasons to owe that stupid creep with the giant blue eyes and the freakishly gentle hands any favors.

“Bridge to Lieutenant Commander Winchester,” Kevin’s voice and image crackled to life on Dean’s desktop screen.

Dean pressed the response button, activating the video and audio on his end. “Winchester here.”

Kevin grimaced and averted his eyes. “Dude. Why are your tits out.”

Oh, yeah. Oops. “My tunic was covered in blood, Kev,” Dean defended, belatedly realizing that didn't explain why he’d forgotten to put on a new one.

“The replicator machines must hate you, man,” Kevin shook his head. “Anyway. Captain Harvelle requests your presence.”

“Thought I was in time-out. Am I gonna get spanked?”

“I know you want me to make a horny joke about that, but believe it or not, I have too many functioning brain cells,” Kevin said. “Captain Harvelle would like to see you on the bridge. Clothed, preferably. Bridge out.”

Dean ordered a new tunic from the replicator slot in his wall and threw it on, then made it from Deck Five to the Bridge within two minutes. When the turbolift doors opened, Dean stepped out with his hands clasped behind his back, trying to look chill. He was fine and he would prove it.

“Hello, Mister Winchester,” Ellen said as she stood from her seat. Several crew members’ heads turned with her. There was no way Ketch hadn’t already spread his propaganda version of Dean’s most recent Accident ™ down the entire chain of command. Dean avoided all eyes but Ellen’s.

“Hello, Captain,” Dean said, so formal it was awkward.

Ellen met him on the bridge’s upper landing. “You’re not in trouble,” she said, almost smiling.

“That’s… a relief,” Dean chuckled.

“So please listen to what I’m about to say to you,” Ellen said, “and don’t assume I’m mad. Because I’m not.”

Dean shifted on his feet. “‘Kay, Ellen, now you’re scaring me.”

She smiled at him, tilting her head in that motherly sort of way. “I’ve been doing a bit of thinking about you, Dean,” Ellen began.

“I’m flattered,” Dean joked weakly.

“You’re an important asset to my crew,” she continued. “Not just as a helmsman, but as a tactician, a leader, a marksman, a scientist… I took you off security because I wanted you  _ everywhere _ , Dean, not just in the line of fire. You’re so good at everything you do.”

“Uh… Thanks,” Dean said, reddening. Hearing Ketch say it sounded like an insult. He wasn’t sure how to process the words coming from Ellen.

“Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but keeping you on the bleachers until you’ve healed doesn’t seem like the right thing to do,” Ellen said. She shrugged. “And besides, what is ‘healed’, really? You and Bobby and I all know you’re gonna get better by getting back in the game.”

“Thank you,” Dean breathed.

She beamed, then turned her head. “Commander Castiel, your presence.”

Fuckin’ A. Like the two of them hadn’t had enough one-on-one time today already. Castiel looked to be of the same sentiment as he joined them, body stiff and expression stiffer. Even if that was how Castiel always looked, it was still a bit reassuring to Dean that the discomfort was mutual.

“Captain,” Castiel greeted.

“However, Dean,” Ellen picked up where she left off, and Dean winced. He knew there was going to be a catch. “I couldn’t decide what to do about your situation until a suggestion from a close confidante.”

“Ash or Sam?” Dean flashed.

Ellen pressed her lips thin.

“Okay, Ash,” Dean guessed.

“After heavy consideration, I’ve concluded they were definitely of the right mindset,” Ellen said. Dean steeled himself. “So, from now on, even though you will be dispatched on missions, landing parties, and potentially violent operations, you will be accompanied at all times by a guiding officer responsible for your well-being.”

Dean scoffed. “No,  _ definitely _ Sam.” That overprotective fucker! He glanced over Castiel’s shoulder and saw his little brother craning his neck around to eavesdrop on their conversation, all puppy-eyed innocence. Sam smiled at him as if in support. Dean glared. Sam’s eyes widened and he turned back around.

Of course Sammy would be a helicopter brother after everything Dean went through. He was already so keyed up about Dean not taking unnecessary risks. By asking Ellen that they’d have to stay connected at the hip at all times, Sam could guarantee Dean never put himself in danger. And it was probably his sick and twisted way of “returning the favor” for all those years Dean raised Sam.

Well, whatever. Sam wasn’t gonna hear the end of it, but his fate could be worse.

“Therefore, Dean,” Ellen continued, suspiciously slowly, “from now on, you will not go anywhere without the presence of Commander Castiel.”

Dean felt his heart drop to his stomach.

“M _ —Me? _ ” Cas paled.

At the front of the bridge, Sam jumped to his feet, revealing his guilt to the masses.

“Uh, Captain, I meant — it was supposed to be me,” Sam sputtered, approaching them awkwardly.

Dean dimly noticed, in the throes of his horror, that everybody was now staring. If the conversation had been somewhat private before, it sure wasn’t now.

“Ellen, are you for real?” Dean choked, finally finding his voice.

“I sure am,” Ellen matched his tone. She tossed her next words back to Sam. “Little brother has great instincts, but not the experience to carry it out. Castiel, however, can heal you at any time and has the capacity to protect you in addition to his regular duties.” Ellen smirked tightly. “You two practically assigned yourselves.”

Had the alert alarms gone off? Dean’s vision was flashing red.

“So this freak is my friggin’ guardian angel now?” Dean snapped.

Castiel tilted his head at him, deathly serious. “There are no such things as angels, Mister Winchester.”

Dean excused himself to the turbolift and released a primal scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT CHAPTER:  
> Lying to Sam sucked. Because Dean knew Sam never believed him, but Sam would always pretend like he did. And he was very, very bad at pretending.
> 
> Me: I'm going to write shorter chapters  
> Me: [uploads another 6000 word chapter]
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment, I'd love to know your thoughts/reactions/predictions or even how your day is going! Thank you so much for reading my work.
> 
> Also, sad news.
> 
> We put our sixteen-and-a-half year old kitty to sleep on Tuesday (kidney failure) and I just wanted to say that working on this has really brought me some comfort. She was very much a Castiel-like guardian angel presence in our lives and I miss her sitting beside me on my futon while I write. I see her in the clouds and the flowers and the indentation on my pillow. She lived long and she prospered. Rest in peace Sadie, I will always love you.  
> <3


	4. Don't Tell Dad the Babysitter's a Seraph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lying to Sam sucked. Because Dean knew Sam never believed him, but Sam would always pretend like he did. And he was very, very bad at pretending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is intended to be a Dean-and-Cas-centric fic, but I actually really enjoyed getting the opportunity to write more about Sam in this chapter. Therefore this pattern might continue.
> 
> I will slip in an additional disclaimer that this is a WIP relying on some improvisation. I have a plot and an ending, but details are developing as I write it because, you know, it's just for fun. I AM trying to be consistent and deliberate, though. If something comes up that requires changing a past detail, I will clarify that in the notes. (And if there is a glaring plot hole, feel free to let me know.) Thank you for sticking with me!

**Stardate 5443** — _Fifteen years ago_

Sam slammed the door to his quarters and burst into tears.

He snatched a few books from his shelf and threw them across the room. Then he threw his baseball. His laundry hamper. His communicator. Just as he was about to throw his Idolian amulet, he redirected his aim toward the bed, torpedoing the fragile artifact into the covers instead of the wall.

Somebody knocked on the door. That stupid hinged door on this stupid old-fashioned sorry excuse for a spaceship. Sam screamed “Go _AWAY!_ ” loud enough to rattle the entire craft.

“Sammy?”

Dean. Sam’s face crumpled again. He hit the mattress with his fists — because he was so angry that crying just wasn’t enough — before dropping to his knees at the bedside, grabbing the pillow, and burying his head beneath it. The world became very soft and warm and feathery. All Sam could feel was his hot breath puffing up against the fabric of the pillowcase.

Several moments passed. Some noises: the door opening, a few footsteps. A feeling: the mattress dipping next to Sam as somebody sat down.

“That’s an interesting way to say your prayers,” Dean remarked.

Sam was too angry to be funny back. “Shut up, _bitch_.”

“ _Whoa,_ little man,” Dean said, and even through his rage, Sam felt his stomach drop in shame. “Don't say bad words.”

Sam threw the pillow off his head, towards the wall. He stared at it glumly. “Learned it from you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m twelve,” Dean justified. “I’m a big kid now. You’re still a little kid.”

“Big-kid-little-kid,” Sam corrected.

“Fine,” Dean said. He paused. “You still can’t say ‘bitch’. You can say ‘jerk’ though.”

“Fine,” Sam spat. “Jerk.”

Dean smirked. “Bitch.”

Sam stood up, his eyes welling with tears again. Dean gently grabbed his arm.

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t cry, I just — I’m just teasing you, man,” Dean said affectionately. “Look, I’ll, uh… I’ll teach you the ‘f’ word. Dad will never know.”

Sam decided not to mention he’d already heard Dad say “fuck”. He pulled his arm away from his older brother, but didn’t meet his eyes. He stared at his bed instead. He thought about the monsters that slept down there and kept him awake at night.

“I hate Dad,” Sam mumbled.

“No, you don’t,” Dean said.

“Yes, I do,” Sam insisted. He sat down on the bed. He wiped at his face and his hand came away wet.

“I thought you would be excited to leave,” Dean said quietly. His voice cracked. It was doing that a lot lately, but this time it sounded different. When Sam glanced up at him, he saw Dean was very tense.

“Aren’t you?” Sam asked sourly. Dean had practically gone supernova with excitement when Dad announced they were abandoning their nomadic life on the _Impala_ to go back to Starfleet. But maybe it was just another way Dean was trying to suck up to Dad.

Instead of elaborating, Dean fell back on the bed, covering his face with his arm.

Sam drew his legs up and crossed them. The brothers sat in silence for a little while, thinking. Sam’s chest felt tight, like it was squeezing the beats out of his heart. Like his body was preparing for an emergency, and he needed to find a place to hide. There was nowhere to hide in the dead of space.

Sam hated this ship — he _HATED_ it— but it was the closest thing he’d ever had to a home. And it was all he had left of Mom. Dean could at least remember the taste of her cooking.

He hated it here, alone in this black vacuum with just Dad and Dean. He hated all the bouncing between beautiful cities and foreign planets and bustling space stations just to come back to this stupid ship every stinking time.

But it was _home._

“Do you cry?” Sam asked.

Dean scoffed. “That’s a dumb question. Everybody cries.”

“Even Dad?”

Dean shrugged. “Sometimes, when he’s…” he swallowed. “Yeah, but, not a lot.”

Sam felt his throat closing up. “I cry a lot.”

“It’s because your friggin’ brain’s so big,” Dean said. “Pushes all your stupid sissy tears outta your too-small noggin.”

Sam couldn’t help but laugh a little, and Dean’s lips twitched in a smile.

“And _your_ brain is teeny-tiny,” Sam said, jumping on the opportunity. “It’s just sitting in your skull and all your tears are sloshing around in there with it.”

Dean was quiet.

“Sorry,” Sam apologized.

“No, it was funny,” Dean said hastily. He smiled, displaying the gap in his teeth where his last canine still refused to grow in. “You’re funny, Sammy.”

Sam smiled proudly, even though his face was still puffy and hot from the final throes of his tantrum.

Dean sat up, studying Sam, like he had something to tell him but couldn’t bring himself to say it. Dean did that a lot; glancing at Sam all melodramatic and meaningful before turning away without telling him what the problem was.

“What?” Sam asked.

Dean shook his head as if it didn’t matter and looked down. Sam pressed his lips together tight. Dean was so annoying.

Dean cocked his head when he noticed something in the sheets.

“You still have this?” Dean smiled, picking up the Idolian amulet.

“Yeah,” Sam said.

He had found it in some planet’s mud a few years ago while Dad was teaching Dean how to hunt a Hellhound. Which you weren’t supposed to do to Hellhounds. You were supposed to just avoid provoking them — Sam had read that in the anthology Dean had given him — but apparently Dean and Dad had never read it because they were really interested in provoking a Hellhound. So Sam had wandered off to provoke the mud with his phaser instead, and he’d blasted up some rocks and found this thing buried there.

It was smaller than his thumb, with delicate little horns and a gold sheen to it, and all Sam could learn about it in any of his books was its origin: some obscure star system called Idolia.

“You can have it,” Sam said. He savored the glow that lit up his brother’s face.

“No, I shouldn’t,” Dean said, despite his smile. “It’s yours, Sammy.”

“I want you to have it,” Sam said. “It’s a protection amulet.” (That was made-up, but Sam said it with enough conviction that Dean seemed to believe him.) “It’ll protect you when we’re apart at the Academy.”

Dean handed the amulet to Sam. “You’re the one who needs protecting.”

Sam shoved the amulet back into Dean’s hands. “Take it or I’m telling Dad you taught me to say fuck.”

Dean blinked at Sam and put the amulet around his neck. “Wow, what a nice amulet. Thanks, Sammy.”

“Welcome,” Sam smiled. And then Dean scooched closer on the bed, wrapped an arm over Sam’s shoulders, and hugged him into his side. Sam stiffened; they didn’t hug a lot, and Dean kind of smelled like onions, since he still refused to accept “becoming a man” meant he should use deodorant now. But the amulet looked right sitting around Dean’s neck. Like it had found its real home.

“I’m going to miss you,” Dean said, his chin resting on Sam’s head. “A lot.”

“It’s just school,” Sam said, because suddenly it seemed like _he_ was comforting _Dean_. “We’ll still see each other.”

“Yeah.” Dean pulled away from Sam and tousled his hair roughly. “Yeah, I guess we will.”

And the brothers sat on the bed and enjoyed each other’s company. And Dad drank at the helm. And the stars flew past beyond the _Impala_ ’s walls.

And Sam and Dean felt it all become nothing but a memory.

* * *

 **Stardate 10972** — _Now_

“The queen actually secretes twice as much tenticular fluid as her subjects,” the Shurlian ambassador Chuck said through a mouthful of synthetic meatloaf. “It’s less efficient in battle, which I guess works out since she’s the queen, but it makes her… charms… sufficiently more potent. She’s too sticky for one of her pets to escape from, and too slimy for one to willingly stay.”

Sam had long since stopped chewing on his bite of Markab-leaf salad, leaning forward eagerly to catch every word Chuck spoke.

“The secretions render the victim, ah…” Chuck dabbed at his beard with a napkin gingerly. “I’m not sure how to say it in Standard.”

“Submissive?” Ketch blurted.

“Almost, but not quite,” Chuck’s eyes narrowed as he searched for the perfect word. “Distressed to the point of false worship in hopes one would be spared of her wrath.”

“So… a bootlicker?” Sam supplied.

Chuck brightened. “Yes, that’s it!” He took another heaping bite of meatloaf.

“And… that’s what happened to you when you were the Rosencian queen’s pet Shurlian?” Sam checked slyly.

“More or less,” Chuck nodded. “Oh, and her name was B’Ekki. Isn’t that funny? I don’t usually jest at foreign names, but I thought it was funny.” He shook his head, his gaze distant, and laughed softly. “' _B’Ekki’._ ” He took another huge bite.

They were sitting at their usual table in the mess hall, beneath one of the rows of hanging potted plants nourished by the room’s scattered artificial sunlight panels. The friend group had spent months trying to align their rotation hours so they could all eat at the same time, and although Mick, Claire, and Charlie were still on the opposite shift, the group was otherwise now complete: Jo, Ketch, Garth, Kevin, Sam, and Dean.

Although Dean was in the middle of a strike, camped out in his quarters, so he was absent today. And therefore Chuck of Shurlion was occupying his spot as the lunch hour’s special guest star, educating the group on his harrowing escapades leading up to his rescue from Rosencia.

“You upset about this whole scheduling snafu?” Garth asked Chuck, gesturing about with his fork.

“Honestly? No,” Chuck said. “I spent the past week fused to the gelatinous hide of a queen who wanted nothing more than to smother me with her affections. What’s a few more days away from home? And I like it here. It’s very, ah…” He swallowed. “Sterile.”

Sam smiled. He liked Chuck, and he liked how strongly he valued precision of language. The guy was a great storyteller. Which probably was an important quality to have as an interplanetary ambassador, what with having to construct appealing arguments and quickly adapt to opposition and… whatever else ambassadors did.

The “scheduling snafu” Garth was referring to was related to the current seals scenario. What was supposed to be an hour delay to Shurlion quickly turned into an eight hour delay when a second alert pinged in from Zachariah (seconded by Starfleet Command) about another seal just off the path last night. Then that became a twenty-four hour delay with a third alert. And then a three day delay with alerts four and five. And now the _Orion_ ’s agenda was so swamped with side quests, Chuck wouldn’t be any closer to Shurlion for nearly a week.

“So, Chuck,” Jo began, smiling slyly, “any juicy gossip up your sleeves?”

Chuck stared blankly. “Juicier than a Rosencian’s tentacles?”

Jo wiggled her eyebrows at Chuck. “I mean, I _am_ the Captain’s daughter. I hear things.”

“Hmm,” Chuck nodded awkwardly.

Jo continued smirking at Chuck suspiciously long enough to make everyone else uncomfortable, too.

“Jo, don’t ask him about Project Genesis,” Kevin groaned finally.

“I _will_ ask him about Project Genesis,” Jo smiled.

“Ellen’s gonna throw you back in your room lickety-split,” Kevin warned.

Jo huffed, and turned back to Chuck. “So. Tell me about Project Genesis.”

Chuck coughed. “What’s Project Genesis?”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. Chuck was even worse at fibbing than he was.

Jo was equally unimpressed with his deflection. “Is it true there were illegal test detonations in the Delta Quadrant?”

Chuck forced down a swallow. “I wouldn’t know.”

“So, yes,” Ketch confirmed.

“No, I truly don’t know,” Chuck insisted, sounding more sure of himself this time. “My involvement with Project Genesis is purely about communication. I’m an ambassador, not a scientist. I only get told what I need to know. And it’s never about the details of the project, or its progress, or… or what it even does. I just… help make sure nobody’s fighting about it.”

Sam cocked his head. All he knew about the infamous Project Genesis was that it began in a research facility with a team of humans, Klingons, and Seraphim, and a falling-out among the leading scientists had led to an interplanetary arms race. It had been a much bigger deal when Sam was little, but recently there were rumors that the project was resurfacing.

“And besides,” Chuck continued, “Shurlion wants nothing to do with the project anymore. We offered supplies ages ago and that was all.”

“So,” Jo said, “are the Klingons and Seraphim trying to win your allyship?”

“As a planet, yes, and part of my job is calming that down,” Chuck said. “Of course, it was in our best interest to dabble with the Federation before any individual planets. We have always had a policy of neutrality. The Federation offers protection.”

Jo leaned forward. “But if the rumors are true, and Project Genesis is the galaxy’s endgame, what side do you choose? Klingons or Seraphim? Or would you stick with the Starfleet humans?”

Chuck chewed his meatloaf for a moment as he thought it over. “The Klingons have some admirable qualities, but their hygiene leaves much to be desired,” he said. “Starfleet would be my natural inclination, as Terran culture is very similar to that of Shurlion. But…” Chuck nodded like he was making a decision. “I have to admit the Seraphim are the most resilient of the three.”

“You sure about that?” Kevin asked. “Klingons are like roaches.”

“Yes,” Chuck said, “but Seraphim are like spiderwebs. Pure and beautiful and nearly unbreakable. I wouldn’t mind if they took over the galaxy. In my experience as an ambassador, they’ve proven very uncorrupt.”

Sam winced. “My brother would beg to differ,” he chuckled unhappily.

“Your brother,” Chuck repeated, brightening as if he just remembered something. “I noticed his absence. In the rescue, was he the one performing a dance routine while shooting at the guards?”

Garth grinned. “Yeah, Dean calls that the Stanky Gank.”

Kevin shut his eyes. “Every time I witness it, a year is shaved off my lifetime.”

“Dean has, ah…” Chuck laughed awkwardly as he examined a synthetic fry. “A very charming physique. Arresting features. Robust… stature. Is he, um, seeing anybody?”

If Sam had a credit for every time he was cornered to play Cupid between Dean and Random Alien Of The Week, he could buy the Federation twice over. If Sam had a credit for every _successful_ blind date between Dean and Random Alien Of The Week, Sam's revenue would be half that. Unfortunately for Chuck, Dean’s only observed interests had ever been in the feminine.

Sam smiled. “Sorry, Chuck. I don’t think he swings that way.”

As Chuck nodded understandingly, Ketch spewed a mouthful of water across the table.

“Gesundheit, Mister Ketchup,” Garth said, clapping him on the back as the security officer coughed violently.

Ketch wheezed, wiping at his face. "Please stop calling me that."

“And even if he did swing that way,” Jo said to Chuck, and the whole table, with a wicked grin, “do you think Ellen would order Castiel to sit in and watch?”

Kevin fake-wretched and, even though Sam felt the same, he couldn’t not laugh. The absolute horror of that implication — Dean would go apeshit.

In the midst of the group’s outburst of hysterics, Jo suddenly straightened and waved brightly to somebody across the room.

“Howdy, Commander!”

Sam stopped mopping up Ketch’s mouth-water from the table and looked up to see Castiel walking towards the group.

Sam was still perplexed at how somebody so focused on professionalism could care so little about the appearance of his hair. Sam himself liked to tease the limits of regulation, but… it was like Castiel didn’t even own a mirror.

“We manifested him,” Kevin remarked when he saw the first officer approach.

Castiel stopped a respectful yard from the table, hands clasped behind his back and head cocked in what might have been intended as a greeting. Sam couldn’t help but admire the variation of Seraphim personalities he’d seen despite all the stories John had told him. Uriel’s apathy ran cold and smooth, whereas Zachariah’s was like a flaming centrifuge. Castiel was like a swan had been stuffed into a bipedal body and was being forced to pose as a humanoid.

“Lieutenant Winchester?” Castiel asked.

“Aye, sir?” Sam answered.

“Apologies if I have interrupted something,” Castiel added, hesitating only slightly. He nodded to the ambassador. “Chuck of Shurlion.”

“Commander Castiel of Elysium, Fourth Regiment, Warrior of Thursday,” Chuck responded.

Sam furrowed his brow.

“Y’all know each other?” Garth asked, his expression mirroring Sam’s.

“No,” Castiel said, although unperturbed by Chuck’s recitation of his full title.

“Just professionally,” Chuck explained. “I gotta know all the big names, you know.”

“...Sure,” Sam said. Because that more or less sounded legit. And Castiel was staring directly into Sam’s eyes instead of looking above his head, which probably meant something was wrong. “What’s the matter, Commander?”

“It is your brother,” Castiel said. Sam tensed, about to stand, and Castiel quickly continued. “He is fine, physically.”

Sam stopped. “Physically? What did he do now?”

“Nothing. Which happens to be the problem.” Castiel blinked. His blinks were few and far between, but when they did occur, they were glaringly sharp. Sam was beginning to think Castiel had to make a conscious effort to force his eyelids to close. “It has been fourteen hours since he slammed the door on me. He still will not leave his quarters.”

Sam poked at his salad. “He gets that way sometimes. You just gotta keep at him.”

“I am not coming to you for advice,” Castiel said curtly. Sam glanced up. Castiel looked, for lack of a less human adjective, distressed. “I am asking for your help.”

Sam winced, suddenly feeling all the eyes of his lunch table watching him. “He’s not very happy with me right now. I’ll probably just make it worse.”

“He is still agitated and I do not have the sufficient experience to adjust my approach accordingly,” Castiel continued. “I have never done… _this_ before.”

Sam resisted the urge to offer taking Castiel's place as the Dean-Sitter by reminding himself of the maimed hunk of meat his brother had been only weeks ago. It wasn't like he had to _try_ to remind himself, though. The images just sort of popped up whenever he started to think poorly of Castiel. He would never forget those first days back... the way Castiel had curled over Dean and held his hands in his own...

Sam put down his fork and tucked his hair behind his ear. "Okay. Yeah. I can help," Sam said quickly, glancing at his friends' taut expressions. The only time they’d seen Castiel heal anybody was when Dean was impaled, and Sam had already gone and revealed his own involvement in this new arrangement to the masses, so… he could only imagine how awkward this conversation must feel to some other point of view. He felt both empowered and irritated that he couldn’t explain to them why it wasn’t.

“Thank you,” Castiel forced out as Sam stood. Sam said goodbye to the lunch table and started to head toward the portside door.

“Winchester,” Castiel said, following him. When Sam turned, he saw Castiel furrowing his brow, his distress even more prominent. “Your brother’s quarters are in the other direction.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “But to make Dean chill out, I have to get something first. You can come with me and I’ll teach you the secret, if you want.”

Castiel did not hesitate to follow him.

* * *

After fourteen hours of mulling it over, it was decided. Dean was going to stay in his quarters for the rest of his life.

He’d remodel the bed, so that he could flip it upside-down to repurpose as a ping-pong table. With one end of it pressed up against the wall, he would never need a partner to play. As third in command he probably had the leverage to put a mini mini bar in here, as well — although perhaps being on such thin ice with the captain may hinder that endeavor. Plus, it wasn’t like his quarters were very spacy to begin with.

And if he stayed in his quarters for the rest of his life, would he even be third in command much longer, anyway? Maybe he could pilot the ship remotely. Reposition his communication screen to his bedside, never wear pants to work, avoid all human contact and any possible need to interact with his babysitter.

Boy, had he told him off. Every past few hours that Castiel had swung by to knock on his door and demand to be let inside, Dean nearly decked him out of principle. _"It is best we talk about this arrangement, Dean — Captain Harvelle has ordered we compromise on this, Dean — We have a mission in sixteen hours, if you would let me in your quarters I could_ blah blah blah ad infinitum. The only people allowed in Dean’s quarters were the Random Alien of the Week and sometimes Sam, on good days. Or really bad days. Really good or really bad days. Right now, Dean just wanted to have a plain old _day._

“Right, Dad?” Dean asked the portrait by his bed. “Just days and days and days.”

Dean unlocked the safe under his bed and took a tiny little swig of the Romulan Ale he kept stashed there. The stuff was illegal for good reason. Dean took just the tiniest sip but _sonofabitch_ that bright blue shit was powerful. The color reminded him of something, but the ale’s warm kick distracted him from thinking about it.

Somebody knocked.

“Fuck.” Dean hastily corked the thing and locked the safe, shoving it deeper under his bed. His throat was still burning and he hoped to high hell he wasn’t gonna open the door and find Ellen there to greet his alcohol flush. “Dean’s residency,” he hollered towards the door.

“Let me in,” Sam said over the intercom.

Dean groaned. Sam would be worse. _Looks like it’s a bad day._ “Go away,” he called.

“I brought you lunch — Cheeseburger. And the extra onions are _not_ synthetic.”

Dean opened the door. “Looks like it’s a good day,” he said, beelining for the tray in Sam’s hands and not even making eye contact. He retreated into the room, Sam following him before the door could slide shut.

Dean’s cheeseburger was an inch from his lips when Sam spoke again.

“I need to talk to you about Castiel.”

“...Aaaand looks like it’s a bad day after all.” Dean smacked his lips and put the burger back on the tray. _Talk about_ , _Castiel_ , and _extra onions_ in a situation together made for a very unappetizing mouthful.

Sam glared at Dean as he abandoned the tray on his dresser.

“Dude, you realize how hard it was to convince Mick to give me those onions? You know how protective he is over his pantry.”

“I’m saving it for later,” Dean said snidely. “Don’t want your bad attitude tainting my enjoyment of it.”

Sam mouthed _bad attitude_ with an exasperated shake of his head, but he actually seemed to be in a fairly good mood. Dean had a feeling it wouldn’t last. Whenever Sam was in the same room as John — whether he was flesh and blood or just a portrait on the wall — things either got real sappy or real stormy real quick. Dad had that effect on people.

“So why’d you do it?” Dean asked.

“Thought you’d be hungry,” Sam pulled a face.

“Not the burger, Sam, the damn deal with Ellen. And I know you got screwed over or whatever, this wasn’t your plan, but…” Dean was in seething older brother mode already and he hated himself for it but, hey, if it was going to be a bad day, it was going to be a bad day.

“But what?” Sam asked. Dean stared moodily by way of response and Sam scoffed. “You’re smart enough. You figure it out.”

“I don’t need to be watched over,” Dean argued. And he was kicking himself for asking a question he and Sam both knew the answer to because now he looked like a douche. But doggone it he was gonna explain himself anyway. “I took care of myself, I took care of you, practically our whole lives. I took care of the security squad, which I don’t even get to do anymore, and I take care of the ship, and I take care of all of Starfleet’s little problems. I’m the last person who needs to be looked after. Hell, sometimes I think I’m the only person doing my job _right._ ”

Sam just sat on the bed, watching Dean, not reacting at all save for the subtle bob of his Adam’s apple. Lying to Sam sucked. Because Dean knew Sam never believed him, but Sam would always pretend like he did. And he was very, very bad at pretending. Both brothers knew what was really going on here, but Dean wasn’t about to say _I’m afraid, Sammy_ out loud. Not with John in the room.

Apparently Dean was mistaken, and Sam was done pretending. “Getting killed isn’t doing your job right,” he stated.

Dean, taken off guard by the rebuttal, came up empty in the response department.

“I’m sick of your macho act,” Sam continued, pulling out the puppy eyes, which wasn’t fair. “You and Ketch are friggin’ children, Dean. I know you’ve been showing off and one-upping each other since the Academy, but it’s gotta stop somewhere.”

Dean frowned. “You think _that’s_ what I’m mad about?” And, in fact, it was, but he had been focused on the other things he was also mad about. Like Mom being dead, and Dad being dead, and Dean not being dead, and all that jazz.

Sam shrugged.

“Ketch is a spoiled brat,” Dean dismissed. “So don’t give him the honor of being responsible for my—”

“Temper tantrums?” Sam finished.

“Shut up.”

Sam chuckled, somehow still in a good mood. Suddenly something caught his attention, and he leaned down to pick something up off Dean’s floor.

“You still have this?” Sam held it up. It was the Idolian amulet Sam had dug up when they were kids. “I thought you… lost it.”

Dean blinked. “I did, too.” The last time Sam would have seen it, the thing was hanging around Dean’s neck, and Dean was being beaten and gagged by Gehennian slave traffickers. Dean had no memory of what happened to it afterwards and therefore had no idea how it ended up on his floor. “Guess I brought it back up with me.”

He snatched the amulet from Sam and put it over his head, sensing an opportunity to steer the conversation back to the real problem here. “Guess it’s another mystery. You know, that whole memory wipe thing, Castiel wasn’t exactly picky. God knows what he erased from my head. Or yours, for that matter.”

Sam pursed his lips. “I don’t think Castiel is an undercover agent, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Exactly. You don’t _think_ so,” Dean stressed. He was in the process of constructing a whole monologue about how human’s perceptions of time, self, and reality were completely reliant on memory. It wasn’t performance-ready, but he was getting there. He’d been focused on little else but the subject ever since he woke up weeks ago with a big fat blank.

“Castiel is a little weird, but he’s a good person,” Sam responded, preventing Dean’s lecture.

“All Castiel knows is obey orders, read my mind, pray to the Great Father, sleep, and repeat,” Dean said. “He doesn’t care if I live or die.”

Sam clenched his fists, looked away, and harrumphed. “Neither do you, apparently.”

“Whaddaya mean?” Dean snapped.

“Your whole ‘dying like a hero’ business!” Sam shook his head. “You can be a great officer without throwing yourself in harm’s way all the time.”

“Yeah?” Dean raised an eyebrow. “That what you do?”

“No,” Sam said softly. He paused, as if trying to remember what it was he actually did.

In all honesty, Dean wondered that too.

Sam tried to be a good officer… how? Dean knew Sam liked the science, the people, the mystery, the adventure… but ever since he was a kid, Sam had no interest in what the “space cops” stood for. He would’ve been better off if they’d left him in the dingy _Impala_ as an eight-year-old, so confident and capable and independent he could have gone off and helped establish a new Federation by now. A better one, probably. This one had its issues. Dean couldn’t afford to think about them.

The year Sam was away from Starfleet — Sam had only been 18, but still so much older — was obviously the best year of his life. So after what happened with Jess, Dean had assumed Sam would’ve erased Starfleet from his life completely. Instead he came back, and not only did he come back, but he came back as navigator. Right back where he started. Dean would never understand how Sam could just _think about something_ and then _change his attitude about it._ Unreal.

“I’m not interested in being a great officer,” Sam said finally. “You were always the hero. I’m fine with being the sidekick.”

Having no clue whether Sam was insulting or complimenting him, Dean responded rudely just to be safe.

“Boo-hoo that Ellen gave the Seraph your dream job.” Dean turned away from Sam’s dewy eyes. He didn’t want to admit that Sam being his sidekick sounded really fucking great right now. Instead, he blurted, “You’re such a fuckin’ cornball.”

“Look, man, I know you’re sick of hearing this, but Castiel—”

“Saved my life. _Yeah,_ I know. And you know why he did? Because Ellen and Bobby friggin’ ordered him to.”

Sam prevented a murder by wrapping his hands around his own neck instead of Dean’s. “Exactly. He _follows orders_. He _obeys Starfleet_. What more proof of character do you need before you trust him?”

“Since when do _you_ find that proof of character?” Dean pivoted. “You know, since Starfleet just makes your skin so fucking crawly.”

Sam took a deep breath. “I’m talking to you. Right now. In the flesh. Isn’t that… isn’t that enough? That you’re alive?”

Dean glowered. What a sincere, sweet, _stupid_ reason to trust somebody.

“Do you really think I should be?”

Sam blinked and swallowed. Perhaps, Dean realized, it was a bit low to pull that card on the one guy who had gone through the most trouble to bring him home.

Sam turned around to leave so fiercely his hair whipped out of its perfect shape. He paused in the doorway. Dean was hit with a strange wave of deja vu. But not totally. Like the deja vu of hearing a tornado alarm going off and knowing it’s only a drill but still fighting down the urge to lock down your valuables. The sudden surge of that untethered panic to _seek shelter immediately_.

Sam glanced back at Dean. Tornados whistled in his heart.

“Just… give Castiel a chance,” Sam said. “Be nice to him. Okay?”

Ah. Yes. This was the old “arguing tenderly about each others’ character flaws” routine, when they wandered into that dicey territory between normal family dispute and complete existential crisis. They hadn't had the opportunity to do this since Dad died. Dean had been too busy lately, what with a Seraph constantly leafing through all of his personal business, to think about bringing up any of it with his brother.

“Yeah, 'nice'. Whatever.” Dean thought maybe he could still go without these discussions for a while longer. Maybe it was a good thing Castiel was chained to him and not Sam. Dean’s shoulders relaxed. His “whatever” ended up more sincere than he had intended it to be.

“And by the way, might wanna scrub your mouth out with that burger,” Sam added.

" _What?_ ”

Sam flashed his teeth in a petulant sneer. “Romulan Ale breath is some incriminating shit, buddy.”

The door slid shut behind Sam before Dean could whoop his ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:  
> In a book, or in a lecture, the city of Perdition was fascinating. In person, it was still fascinating, but in a much fouler, disturbing, and distressing sense.
> 
> I'm very sorry about the delay. I finally got the new Animal Crossing and my focus has been uhhhhhhh occupied elsewhere. I am in love with Weber the duck. In all honestly, I do have a valid reason, being that my college just announced first-years will be learning remotely in the fall. Big bummer. So I spent my normal upload days cleaning out my entire room to turn it into a dorm.
> 
> This chapter was supposed to have twice as much content as it ended up having but I think it worked out better this way. Sometimes I try to cram too much in at once. As I'm sure you all have noticed. :D (Also sorry for the chapter re-upload, I made some edits.)
> 
> I fully intend to keep updating as frequently as I can but once school starts I will either be more focused than usual or be completely distracted. I could continue with frequent short chapters (about half as long as I usually post) at the current upload rate or maintain the same word count with longer hiatuses. Feel free to leave a comment if you feel strongly about either option.
> 
> Thank you all so so so much for reading this. It's a great ball of fun for me and I hope it is for others as well.


	5. That Which Survives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a book, or in a lecture, the city of Perdition was fascinating. In person, it was still fascinating, but in a much fouler, disturbing, and distressing sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the hiatus. For what it's worth, this is my favorite chapter so far (besides the earlier Castiel POV).
> 
> A few Easter eggs: I subconsciously based the planet Gehenna/the city of Perdition on the alternate-dimension Earth where King Koopa reigns in the 1993 Super Mario Brothers live action movie. And I forgot that Rura Penthe from Star Trek VI is a prison colony & dilithium mine, so uhhh, just pretend I made that allusion on purpose as some super clever writer's choice. Actually, there’s also a Star Trek VI reference in here regarding English literature. I just really love that movie.

**Stardate 10972 —** _Now_

When Castiel opened the door to greet Dean at the First Officer’s quarters, Dean could tell he had barged in on something important. And that made him quite pleased.

Dean flashed his teeth brightly as if he hadn’t been pitching a hissy fit for the last half day.

“You suggested a compromise?”

He was answered with a solemn stare.

“You interrupted my prayers,” Castiel said.

“Sorry,” Dean lied. “The, uh, mission’s approaching.”

“Yes,” Castiel affirmed. “I was praying for guidance on this approaching mission, particularly in how best to serve as your caretaker.” He raised an eyebrow at Dean. “Perhaps you approaching me is an answer to that prayer.”

“I highly doubt it,” Dean muttered. “Whatever. Mission in ten, Ellen wants teamwork, I want Ellen to like me, I assume you wanna do your job. So, voila. Let’s go.”

Castiel cocked his head. “You are renouncing your strike and assuming position as my guardianship charge?”

 _Yeah, no, we’re gonna rephrase that_. Dean hesitated. “I’m willing to work with you, good attitude, all that. But I have some conditions.” He felt very awkward standing in the open doorway discussing the babysitting rules while his crewmates passed by in the hall behind him. “Can I, uh… come in?”

“No,” Castiel said. “I will come out.”

He brushed past Dean into the hallway and the door slid shut. Funny how Castiel didn’t seem to value privacy until it was his own that was at stake. Must be that no-empathy thing.

“So, logic is your love language, right?” Dean began.

“What?”

“Right. So I’m gonna try to deal with that. The dryness, the rudeness, everything about you...” Dean realized even a Seraph might take that as an insult — let alone a superior officer. “Sir, we’ve clashed in the past, but I will do my best to remember respect.”

“Of course,” Castiel said. “Although respect is required regardless of our unfortunate arrangement.”

Dean tried not to roll his eyes. “At least we’re on the same page about that.”

Castiel then lowered his brows. “It is not enough for you to promise to ‘behave’,” he said. Dean swallowed. He had kind of hoped he had driven the Science Officer to his wit’s end already and _good behavior_ would be enticing enough. “I would appreciate it if you also observed greater patience and diligence.”

“Okay,” Dean said, intending to observe neither patience nor diligence.

Castiel clasped his arms behind his back in a professional stance, but the position didn’t help him look any less awkward.

“I assume there is a compromise on my end as well,” Castiel said.

“Yeah, ah, first of all, no mind readings,” Dean said.

“Doctor Singer—”

“ _Unless_ it’s a super big deal and I’m compromised by Ceti eels or something, okay? Just… no more frivolous head digging. It makes my skin crawl.”

Castiel hesitated, then nodded. “I accept. Under the condition that you extend the utmost effort to stay out of harm’s way.”

“Okay, I accept, too.”

“What are your other conditions?”

“No healing.”

Castiel’s face didn’t fall, per se, but he certainly made a _look_. “Mister Winchester, you are very intent on forbidding me to do my job.”

“Okay then, just ask my permission first,” Dean bargained. “For all of it, really. Just _ask_ me if I’m cool with it. Communication, man.”

“You…” Castiel frowned. “You are asking me to intercept your emotions.”

Dean threw his hands in the air. “You work in a fleet full of— a _Federation_ full of humans. Isn’t intercepting emotions the whole gig?”

Castiel looked away. “I am learning.”

“Well,” Dean said, “so am I.”

A blueshirt paused in the hallway to throw the two a confused glance. Dean glowered at her and she moved on immediately.

“I suppose,” Castiel said, “we will not know if our arrangement works until we put it to test in the field.”

Dean nodded quickly. “Sure. Yeah. Yeah, we can iron out the kinks as we go. I’m adaptable.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow and tilted his head. “I am eager to deliver our performance to Captain Harvelle.”

Dean couldn’t help but smile. “Was that sarcasm?”

The Seraph’s whimsical blue eyes blinked once before he turned away from Dean.

“Come,” he ordered over his shoulder. “We should alert Captain Harvelle of our intentions to join the away team.”

“Sarcasm,” Dean mused softly, still grinning, and he followed Castiel to the transporter room.

* * *

 **Stardate 10890** — _Eleven weeks ago_

“Stay close to me,” Dean muttered as the thick iron gates of Perdition closed behind the landing party. Sam didn’t need to be told twice. The city may have been sketchy, but the prison mines on the outskirts were swarming with evil.

The dwarf planet Gehenna was an ashy little thing, all scat-brown and flesh-reddish, thick with the stench of sulfur and benzene. It suffered from two variations of chronic acne — the pitted patterns of volcanoes and craters, and the pimply constellations of recently-founded industrial cities. Total population: 40,000 untouchables from across the alpha and beta sectors, abandoned by their people forever to serve penance in the infernal dilithium mines.

There were many races of non-Terrans on Gehenna, but most of the felon-citizens were Klingons. Perdition, the penal colony’s capital, was particularly dense in the Klingon population. The city was an incredibly important hub for dilithium crystal exports, but the Federation had yet to strike a solid deal with the city’s flaky council and formidable Chancellor regarding a trade agreement.

For the past two hours, Rufus, Sam, Dean, and three security officers had been bargaining with Chancellor Alastair and his less-than-attentive council on the logistics of a new Federation-sanctioned trading outpost. Alastair was the ugliest Klingon Sam had ever seen — rotten teeth, gangrenous lips, bony limbs, witch-like fingers — but he was also the only one who had listened. And luckily, his vote was the only one that mattered.

“We will agree to your terms,” Alastair had said at long last, shaking Rufus’ hand one final time. “But you must speak to the warden for a _personal_ tour of our facilities.”

The council cackled at that.

“What’s so funny?” Dean flashed. Sam winced, fully expecting Dean to be sniped at once.

Instead, Alastair smirked. “It is funny,” he said, his words slithering about as if he kept eels in his cheeks, “because you think you are heroes.”

Sam could guess what Alastair meant by that. He once found that funny, too.

Relationships with Klingons on their home planet Kronos were rocky enough nowadays, especially after the political uprising several years ago that had shook the planet. So relationships with Klingon _felons_ would be much harder to establish and even more essential to getting diplomacy back on the table — particularly with all that Genesis crap floating around again.

Sam mused Ellen wasn’t exaggerating when she’d darkly deemed this mission the doomsday prologue. But, things had gone well with Chancellor Alastair. Now all they had to do was scope the mines. And not get kidnapped in the process.

Even through his chromo-metallic environmental suit (which served more to combat the heat than the atmosphere, which was breathable), the putrid smell of rotten eggs and gasoline was impossible to ignore. Sam wrinkled his nose. The stench was practically visible in the reddish air, as if it was pulsing off the street in waves.

On either side of the hundred-foot-wide plateau the officers walked down were deep, expansive quarries, where valuable resources besides dilithium were found. Grime-coated prisoners passed them on the path, some dragging balls and chains, others free to wield their pickaxes with only handcuffs signifying their status, still others trailed by guards holding them at gunpoint as they moved into their positions.

The sky was pure orange and bright as midday, yet the giant moon hung there, shining pure white. God, it was so big in these heavens, Sam’s entire fist wouldn’t block it out of his view. He became ever more aware of their gravity boots clunking against the dirt. They were an essential on Gehenna. Those in the lowest castes, lower even than the lowest of prisoners, were left to bounce and float over the planet, drifting away to be claimed by the elements. Or the Hellhounds. Or the slave traffickers.

The Starfleet officers had been protected by law on the streets of the city, but in the prison mines, their only protection was themselves. And, as human slaves were currently in high demand in the Rack — a mysterious organization of kidnappers who tortured their victims in the name of science — the slightest skirmish could compromise the entire party’s safety.

“Two o’clock,” Rufus warned softly, slowing down. Sam, Dean, and the other security officers filling up the away team adjusted their pace.

Sam would not have noticed the hostiles had Rufus not distinguished them. They were a trio of young Klingon prisoners, their pickaxes trained on the Starfleet officers. The away team kept their heads straight on the road ahead of them, proceeding toward the warden’s office. Sam’s fingers twitched at his sides.

One of the young Klingons suddenly sprung on Sam, cackling evilly, swinging its pickaxe. Sam stumbled the other direction, straight into the waiting hands of the other two Klingons. Sam’s phaser was knocked from his fingers and, just as he saw the flash of a pickaxe, two sharp blasts of light sent the assailant and one of his friends straight to the street, unconscious.

Dean grabbed Sam and yanked him close. The remaining Klingon lunged for them, but Rufus’ phaser pressed to his head stopped him.

“That’s set to kill now,” Rufus warned in Klingon.

The Klingon slowly set his pickaxe on the ground, eyeing Rufus, and then retreated hastily, abandoning his cronies behind him.

A seven foot tall prison guard, clad head to toe in thick black armor, hurried over to the party. It promptly shot the three prisoners in their heads — with solid bullets, not particle beams. Before the third body could hit the dirt, the guard turned to Rufus.

“Be more careful,” it ordered darkly. “It is not my job to protect you, and now I am down three workers.”

Sam didn’t feel his heart beat again until the guard had turned away.

“Watch yourself,” Rufus snapped at Sam, putting away his phaser.

“I _tried_ ,” Sam grunted.

Rufus leaned in close. Sam knew if they weren’t wearing these ridiculous helmets, there would be spit flying between them.

“We may have been protected on the city’s streets, but here, we got nothin’ but ourselves,” Rufus scolded. “Humans are a delicacy in the Rack nowadays, or haven’t you bozos heard?”

Sam tried to hide his embarrassment. "Well... like you always say, sir: oldest rule."

"To Hell with the oldest rule," Rufus harrumphed. He shot a glare at Dean, as well. “The legacy of your daddy is counting on me, and I keep my word, boy. If either of you fuck up, I’m blaming _me._ Don’t you put me through that kinda misery.”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Dean promised.

“Isn’t that called gaslighting?” Sam challenged impishly.

“Shut your whore mouth,” Rufus muttered, leaving Sam’s personal space and continuing down the plateau. Sam noticed Dean was brushing his fingers over the indentation on his chest, where his amulet was nestled under his EV suit.

“I was really hoping we wouldn’t have to come out here,” Dean admitted when he noticed Sam noticing him.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed.

Dean moved a hand to rest on his weapon as they followed Rufus. “Sam, I’m keeping you out of the Rack if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Let’s not cross that bridge when we don’t come to it,” Sam said. Dean smiled.

* * *

 **Stardate 10972** — _Now_

Ellen, Sam, Ash, and Jody had the decency not to remark on Dean’s apparent cooperation when he and Castiel strode into the transporter room. Ketch did not.

“You caved?” Ketch smirked. He made an obnoxious little hand movement. “Relinquished your agency already? I knew you had a thing for dominant partners, but—”

“Be quiet,” Castiel ordered.

His voice was so gruff, Dean almost didn’t recognize it.

“Aye, sir,” Ketch responded softly, more shocked than embarrassed.

Dean’s cheeks burned. Castiel wasn’t his fucking mother. He directed his anger at Ketch in a seething glare and marched into position as part of the semicircle, ignoring Sam when he tossed Dean a bright smile.

Ellen cleared her throat, still gracefully ignoring the awkward tension in the air, and pulled out her phaser to adjust a setting.

“Vega Prime’s another Class M,” she said. “A bit populated, but we’re beaming down in the wilderness. It’s a jungle down there. Literally. The foliage is thicker than Gorn bone, so set phasers to disintegrate.” She looked up pointedly. “And avoid the fauna. We don’t wanna be vaporizing any Bambis.”

“Bambi’s mom,” Sam corrected.

“Yeah, avoid her too,” Ellen said. The away team pulled their phasers out to adjust their blast settings. “Shouldn’t run into much trouble, it’s just the environment we gotta adapt to. Okay, chop-chop, boys, the Seal’s not gonna retrieve itself.”

The party assembled themselves on their pads, Castiel cutting in to claim the circle beside Dean just before Sam could. The last thing Dean saw before he felt the Vega Prime heat wave was his brother’s pertinent eyebrow raise. _Sure takes his job seriously,_ he seemed to remark. Yeah. Lucky Dean.

The heat struck like a flood. It was so _wet_ . Dean had suffered humidity before, but the air here was like a mousse pudding. _Did the sun melt my eyes out of my head?_ It took several moments for Dean’s vision to focus enough to take in his surroundings.

They had beamed into a small clearing lit by the glaring white sun, but after a few yards, the sticky bluish dirt was engulfed in a thick growth of trees, where the light seemed to disappear completely under the dense canopy.

“Greens that neon are just… not natural,” Dean scoffed as he took in the trees’ giant, squarish leaves.

“They are,” Castiel reassured him.

“Awright, according to my thingy-ma-bobs, uh…” Ash held his scanner up high, performing a slow spin in place. “Seal’s deep _thataway_ and I got no problemo diggin’ it out. We just gotta mow some grass.” He tossed back his mullet to let some air on his neck and looked to Castiel. “Confirmation, Mister Castiel?”

Castiel showed no sign of being affected by the heat, even though Ketch was already sweating like a horse and Sam’s hair was matted to his brow as if he were fresh from a shower.

“I can sense it, but faintly,” he said. “There is interference, but I have no doubt we will be successful.”

“Excellent,” Ellen said. “Onward.”

“Don’t touch any orange flowers with purple dots,” Jody warned as they stepped into the jungle. “Castiel can’t heal you from their hallucinations and my hypos will only do so much.”

If Dean could make out much color in the dark chaos of the jungle, he would have taken that warning more seriously. The alternating patches of pitch darkness and piercing light he stumbled through while tripping over roots and vines were so contrasting and sudden he could have believed he’d been transported to a club dance floor. The claustrophobic heat and sweatiness did nothing but contribute to the impression.

It smelled like vanilla and wet dog in here. He batted some leaves out of his face, and a few stubborn fronds clung to his palms. He jiggled his phaser out of his belt, hearing whistling around him accompanied by blasts of pink light — his colleagues clearing their own paths through the jungle. He vaporized enough branches to see a few yards in front of him and hurried forward, errant boughs brushing his arms.

“ _Dean!_ ”

A hand yanked him by the arm and he careened straight backwards into Castiel’s chest.

“Ow! Fuck,” Dean swore as he struggled to regain his footing, snatching his arm away. “What the fuck!”

Castiel’s wide eyes were even creepier in the dark foliage, like the fucking Cheshire cat or something.

“You were in danger.” He pointed to a branch of dotted flowers that could maybe have been orange.

“Whatever,” Dean spat, and zapped the flowers into a cloud of nanoparticles.

“Everyone good?” Dean heard Ellen’s voice call through the thicket.

“Yes,” Castiel hollered back, and _damn,_ for a quiet guy, he could really holler _— “_ Dean found the hallucinogens. We are fine.”

Ketch responded with something, but Dean chose not to give it the time of day.

Would it kill them to bring a damn water bottle on missions every once in a while? After only ten minutes of trudging through the jungle, Dean could barely hear the sound of his phaser over his own exhausted gasps. His thighs were killing him, his feet were sore, and his arm was gonna need even more physical therapy with all this pushing-heavy-leaves-away business.

After Dean nearly vaporized a six-legged koala-like creature in its own nest, he turned to Castiel tiredly.

“Are we there yet?” He panted as the koala thing screeched at him in contempt. “Can’t you… feel the… the thingy yet?”

Castiel’s face was illuminated by a patch of light from a gap in the canopy. The Seraph’s skin was still dry and unblemished as if he hadn’t burned a single calorie.

“I believe we are almost there,” Castiel said. “You seem labored. Are you hurt? Do you need me to—”

“No. Leave me alone.” Dean said.

“I cannot—”

“It’s an exaggeration,” Dean yelled. Or rather, sighed. He could only afford enough energy to half-ass his complaining.

A proud _woot-woot_ carried through the trees.

“Ash?” Dean called.

“I think he found it,” Sam called back. There were a few crashing steps and a rustle of leaves, and then the beanstalk boy burst into Dean and Castiel’s little clearing. He smiled tiredly at the two of them and pointed into the distance. “I think he’s over here. We lost each other in a minor bug swarm.”

“Dude, you are _drenched_ ,” Dean remarked in disgust.

Sam’s powder blue uniform was soaked to near transparency. He wiped his thick wet hair back from his forehead (it then stood stiff in mid-air like a ski jump) and he curled his lip at Dean.

“At least I don’t look like a newborn Tellarite,” he sneered. “Let’s just get this over with. I want a damn LaCroix.”

Sam turned and crashed through the jungle, pursuing the sound of Ash’s triumphant yodeling. Dean followed silently, too genuinely offended to come up with a response.

“You in no way resemble a newborn Tellarite,” Castiel said from behind him.

Dean turned around. This concerned face of Castiel’s had to be an act. _Sarcasm again, huh?_

“Yeah,” Dean said. He was covered in gallons of bodily fluids and undoubtedly indistinguishable from a porcine biped. Meanwhile, Castiel… What twisted science experiments did the Seraphim undergo to cultivate a genetic code so capable and flawless as his? Castiel’s perfect complexion made Dean want to puke. “Don’t look so bad yourself,” Dean spat, trudging after Sam, “Sir.”

Ash was found kneeling in a pool of fronds, pawing at the mud, Ellen and Sam standing a few steps behind him. Jody and Ketch appeared out of the chaparral just seconds after Dean arrived.

“There,” Ash said, sitting back on his haunches and wiping his dirty hands on the nearest leg, which happened to be Ketch’s. Ash grinned as he dug a tool out of his belt. “Seal’s just a few feet below. Can you feel that, Castiel?”

The question was phrased as rhetorical encouragement, but Castiel confirmed that he could, indeed, feel that.

“Just gotta jimmy off this panel…” Ash got to his feet and paced a circle around his spot in the ground. Dean leaned over, trying to get a view through the bushes of what Ash had found, and saw the mud had been cleared away from a three-by-four metal panel embedded into the jungle’s floor.

“What are we looking at?” Ellen asked.

Sam checked his tricorder.

“Looks like an underground storage unit,” Sam said. “It’s not very big inside; the Seal is probably all that’s in there.”

“Hand me a scalpel, Doctor Badass,” Ash muttered to himself as he got back on his hands and knees. He began heating the panel’s lock with his adjusted phaser. “Just a simple incision here…”

“Kind of useless out in the middle of nowhere, no?” Ketch said. “Only the dinky unit? Bit of an excess.”

“Hardly, Mister Ketch,” Castiel said. “The Seals are a great source of power, both in the scientific sense and the spiritual. Consequences would be dire if they were to fall into the wrong hands.”

Dean tried not to roll his eyes at the mention of the Seals’ spirituality. He wasn’t usually such a dick of an atheist, but if Castiel was gonna keep bringing up praying and the Celestial Father and the great spiritual power of the Seals all the time, Dean would lose his mind.

“I told you this place was populated, Arthur,” Ellen said to Ketch. “We’re just in the middle of nowhere. There are small storage units scattered throughout this jungle. It’s their way.”

“Yes,” Castiel affirmed. “The human instinct to amass all ones’ belongings within their sights is not a universal one.”

Dean groaned. “Why is everything you say an insult?”

Castiel turned calmly. “Why do you assume I would waste my energy insulting you?”

The rough clang of the storage hatch busting open jarred Dean from his scowl. Ash tossed away the freed metal sheet, which warbled sadly as it flopped to the ground.

“Excellent precision, Doctor Badass,” Ash commended himself.

“Need some forceps?” Sam joked, kneeling and offering his arms to lift the storage container’s contents.

“Hold your horses, gotta check for a…” Ash crawled around the edge of the square hole, peering inside.

“Alarm?” Ellen supplied. Ash grunted in confirmation.

Dean squinted into the storage compartment. The only thing inside was a 20-inch tall ceramic box covered in scribbly engravings.

“That’s the Seal?” Dean scoffed. “Ugly.”

“It’s a container, Dean,” Ellen said.

“The Seal would be too detectible, and powerful, without the warding,” Castiel said. 

“Oh.” Dean allowed himself to worry that he was stupid. “That why you can’t…”

“Feel it from far away? Yes,” Castiel said. He paused. “I can feel it now, though.”

He looked so stressed, Dean had to ask: “What does that mean?”

“No alarms!” Ash rejoiced, popping his head up from the hole. He promptly slid himself into the gap beside the seal. His chest was level with the jungle’s surface. “Who’s gonna help me lift this?”

Dean pushed Sam aside to hop in the hole himself, and — predictably — Castiel followed.

But just as Dean reached for the Seal, a wave of headrush washed out his vision and buckled his knees.

“Dean?” said Castiel and Sam at once.

“Whoops,” Dean covered, leaning his back against the side of the compartment with his elbows propped in the dirt.

“Are you okay?” somebody asked.

As Dean’s sight cleared, he became aware of a sharp ringing in his ears. “The heat, I think. M’fine.” His voice was rather faint. _This is so humiliating_.

“I have a hydration hypo,” somebody (Jody, evidently) said. “Maybe we should start bringing water bottles when we—”

“Wait.” The ringing was growing louder, now more of a high-pitched howl. Dean’s mind raced — _Nobody walks free, you won’t be long —_ and he looked to Castiel on instinct. The Seraph’s blue eyes widened in understanding. “I think I’m… having an episode here.”

“Shit,” Ellen gasped.

Castiel reached across the Seal and took Dean by the arm. As he did so, the howling reached another loud burst. Dean screwed his eyes shut.

“Am I dying?” Dean heard himself gasp.

“No,” Castiel said. He shook Dean’s arm until he opened his eyes. The howling cut off and was then replaced with a large, sharp growl. But this time, when Dean winced, everybody else did, too.

“ _Shit,_ ” Ellen repeated. Her face was white with fear.

Sam whipped his head toward his older brother, and finally, grimly, horrifically, Dean understood.

“Hellhound.”

* * *

 **Stardate 10890** — _Eleven weeks ago_

For the next few hours, business went smoothly. The warden spoke with the away team civilly. They received a rudimentary tour of the mines. Sam witnessed a prisoner collapse from exhaustion and be trampled to death by his fellow inmates. All was falling in according to plan.

By the time they made it back up to Gehenna’s surface, night had fallen. A volcano was erupting on the distant horizon, and red ash floated across Gehenna’s purple sky. The away team was now on the farthest edge of the quarry, beyond the warden’s office, preparing to beam up — Sam and Rufus discussing final terms with the warden, Dean and the security squad making their way up the twisting, rocky path, far behind them.

And then Dean screamed.

Sam saw Dean’s mouth open before he heard the noise — Dean and the other security officers around him were brightly lit by the blossoming pit of fire beside them that had just burst through the ground. Yet the fire wasn’t why Dean was screaming.

Dean was screaming at the giant Hellhound galloping toward them.

The beast was eight feet tall at the shoulder, rippling with muscle, drool flying from its enormous muzzle as it gnashed its teeth in the air. Facts Sam had memorized as a kid flashed through his mind: _phaser guns will barely scratch these creatures, you need goofer dust if you want to slow them down, their bite can snap Gorn bone like toothpicks..._

Sam broke into a sprint, leaving Rufus behind. The dirt beneath his feet grew hot and he darted to the side. Another tall bloom of flame erupted from the ground where he had just been, glowing projectiles of discarded rock sizzling Sam’s flesh as they hit his arms.

“Dean!” Sam yelled. He was fast, but he’d never reach him in time. The security officers pulled out their phasers, firing at the giant dog, and Dean tried to push their arms down — _No, don’t, you’ll only piss him off—_

“Sam, duck!”

Rufus’ voice erupted behind Sam — he must have followed him — and he obeyed, ducking and nearly sending himself tumbling over his long legs. A projectile whooshed over his head. It flew hundreds of yards, sailing over Dean, and hitting the dog square in its muzzle, where it burst into a black cloud of dust. The Hellhound howled.

“Goofer dust,” Rufus said as he caught up with Sam. He was holding a handheld cannon. “Wouldn’t come here without it.”

By this time, Dean and the security officers had recovered themselves and were racing for Sam and Rufus. The dog was pawing at its face, stumbling about, then took off running again, this time incapable of following a straight line. It careened _around_ Dean, galloped straight past him, then took a sharp turn, heading directly for Sam and Rufus.

Sam backpedaled frantically as Rufus, cool as a cucumber, shot another pouch of goofer dust from his handheld cannon. The Hellhound was so close now that when the impact came, the dust cloud engulfed Sam and Rufus, as well. Sam coughed, tripping and falling flat on his face, his helmet popping off on impact and rolling away. Sam’s lungs were drowning in ashy black shit. A giant impact shook the ground: the Hellhound’s massive paw, just barely missing Sam’s skull, crushing his freed EV helmet to smithereens.

Sam’s brain was pounding; he tasted blood in his mouth. As he lifted his face from the dirt, faint flashes of light cut through the dissipating black cloud. The ringing in his ears was replaced with the whistle of phaser fire.

Somebody yanked Sam to his feet and he caught onto them — Rufus — to steady himself. The stench of rotted meat and dog breath was overpowering and Sam gasped as the Hellhound lurched about just yards away from him, snapping its giant jaws at the security officers firing at it valiantly.

“Won’t hurt it,” Sam protested, light-headed.

“They’re confusing it,” Rufus said. “You good?”

Sam whipped around, searching through the turmoil. The Hellhound… where had it come from? And where was—

“ _DEAN!_ ”

Dean was still hundreds of yards away at the tunnel entrance; he hadn’t been with the security officers running after him. His EV helmet was gone, the silvery suit partially ripped off, geysers of flame forming a barricade between him and Sam. Dean was being attacked: not by a Hellhound, but by a group of men.

Horror crashed into Sam’s heart like a meteorite. _Traffickers._

Sam didn’t notice he’d started running until he caught fire. He batted at his arm’s flaming sleeves frantically, not daring to slow down, barely avoiding more of the blazing bursts as they shot from the ground.

Dean fought desperately, shooting at his assailants, kicking and swinging and elbowing. They never ceased. When one went down, two more got up. Hands held down Dean’s arms, boots took out his legs, Dean blasted one in the face and then took a horrible blow to the cheek that sent him tumbling, limp, to his knees. The Hellhound, such an evil diversion, roared behind Sam. The volcano bubbled on the horizon. Red ash clouded the purple sky.

The world was falling apart around him.

Dean lifted his head, and Sam was finally close enough that he could see his face clearly; the broken nose, the blood bubbling from his lips, the fear in his eyes. Something glinted on his chest: the amulet, swinging about wildly. In the firelight, it was practically glowing.

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean cried. He could barely move. The men yanked him to his feet, and one turned to Sam, its eyes pitch black in the darkness.

Somebody tackled Sam from behind, sending him flying into the dirt. Sam rolled over, punching his attacker.

“Sam! It’s me, goddammit!”

“Rufus,” Sam gasped. He shoved Rufus off of him. “We have to— _Dean!_ ”

“It’s too late,” Rufus yelled over the roar of blazing geysers. “I can’t lose you, too!”

Sam scrambled to his feet and lunged for Dean again, but Rufus caught him, pulling him back by the arm. Sam tried to shove him off, still watching Dean helplessly — _they’re dragging him away, he’s staring at me, he’s so scared, Rufus_ — and Rufus caught him around the chest, pinning his arms to his sides. One of Dean’s kidnappers peeled off the group to rush Sam and Rufus instead.

A familiar buzz of light permeated the air.

“ _NO!_ ” Sam screamed. They couldn’t beam them up. Not now. “ _DEAN!_ ”

The attacker was just a few feet from them now, but Sam’s eyes were on Dean’s face. His big brother. His big brother, who carried him out of the fire, and now Sam was going to watch him die in one, just like Jessica, just like Mom—

Dean lifted his chin as much as he could in his restraints, his green eyes glossed over with pain. As the world faded around Sam, Dean’s lips moved.

_I’m okay._

Sam collapsed onto the floor. The cold, solid, silver floor.

Rufus knelt beside him. Somebody joined them, asked a question. Sam couldn’t hear it. His face was hot and wet and twisted and his whole body shook and he couldn’t feel his hands — he was drowning in his own sobs. Words drifted through his head over the thunderclaps of exploding dirt, the echoes of screams: _the oldest rule, the oldest damn rule_... 

“Sam?” It was Ellen. She was crying. “Sam?”

Sam choked on the molten grief in his throat; his lips, tongue, completely numb, his eyes blind, his chest empty. He crumpled, letting the captain embrace him, barely feeling her hands across his back.

“I couldn't save Dean.”

* * *

 **Stardate 10972** — _Now_

As if immensely pleased to hear its name spoken aloud, the Hellhound let loose a skull-rattling roar. Dean scrambled out of the storage unit, grabbing Sam’s hand for a boost.

“We have to run,” he said. “ _Now._ ”

The sound of trees cracking jarred the party. Dean didn’t bother to pinpoint where the sound was coming from, instead trusting an instinct and pointing in a direction. Jody and Ketch took off, Sam and Dean close behind. 

“The Seal!” Castiel protested. Dean gritted his teeth and halted, sparing a glance back. Castiel was standing in the hole, looking back and forth between Dean and the ceramic box awkwardly.

“I got it,” Ash said, jumping in the hole to lift the Seal out. Ellen jumped in beside him.

“Me too,” she said. “Castiel, go with them, do your job.”

Castiel pulled himself out of the hole, but hesitated.

“My job is to—”

Another ear-splitting howl cut him off. That one was _way_ too close. Castiel knew it, too. He followed Dean and Sam into the jungle, Ellen and Ash not far behind.

If wading through the jungle had been hard, running through it was impossible; every few steps, a root sprung to life and grabbed Dean’s ankles, thick and heavy vines threatened to bash in his head, and the leaves pushed back with as much force as they were struck.

“Anybody bring goofer dust?” Dean screamed out, leaping over a giant log.

“Yeah, because I was prepared for a Gehenna native on Vega Prime,” Sam snapped. "What is that thing doing here?!"

"What do you think?" Ellen hollered from behind them. “Klingons want the Seals too!”

Thundering steps rumbled in the not-too-distant distance, leaves crunching and trunks snapping and, all too soon, the hound’s panting breaths were almost on their necks.

“Flowers!” Sam exclaimed, and Dean ducked, just narrowly missing a branch of the hallucinogenic orange blossoms. Unfortunately, missing the branch of blossoms meant he stepped directly into a loose swatch of mud.

The world slid out from under him and Dean realized they were along the edge of a hidden bluff, a drop of thirty feet looming beneath him. As he slid down, he reached out, just barely snatching a root before he could tumble down with the lump of mud.

But then a blue blur slid past him, and—

“ _SAM!_ ”

Sam caught Dean by the leg, dangling from him like a desperate spider in a hurricane. Dean’s hands slipped under the added weight, and he tightened his grip on the root, but then another blue blur appeared on his other side—

“ _CAS!_ ” Dean stuck one arm out for the Seraph to catch, and he did, looking up at Dean with what might have been genuine fear.

More mud slid down the steep bluff, as if whatever Dean had stepped on triggered a whole landslide. Just as the Hellhound roared — it was right at the edge of the bluff, they could smell its rancid breath — Castiel and Sam’s combined weight became too much for Dean’s bad shoulder and he let go, all three officers shooting down the slimy incline.

They landed in a heap, the pain only setting in after Dean got his bearings. The ground was rocky, but the mud accompanying them had softened their impact. 

Dean sat up, aching all over. His ankle was twisted weird, but he could manage. It hurt like a mother, but he could manage.

“Are you hurt?” Castiel asked. He was covered in bluish-black mud, but already getting to his feet.

Dean shook his head, looking around. Sam was a few feet from him, still lying down, probably orienting himself. Ellen and the others were nowhere to be seen.

“They must have avoided the bluff,” Dean placated himself, trying not to consider the alternative. He groaned as he shifted his body. “Hey, Sammy, get up. We gotta move.”

Sam was silent.

“Sammy?” Dean’s heart rate quickened and he moved closer to his brother, wincing when his twisted ankle protested.

Sam’s injury was not so minor. His lower leg was bent in a direction that was gut-wrenchingly _wrong_ , and something was sticking out through his black pant leg that looked way too much like bone. Dean dragged himself up to Sam, his ankle smarting the whole way, but when he saw his brother’s face — his eyes squeezed shut, his cheeks so pale — all he could feel was his heart falling to pieces.

“ _Sam,_ ” Dean barked around the lump in his throat. Sam’s eyelids fluttered, but remained closed, and he drew his thin eyebrows together.

“Ow,” he muttered.

“S’okay, Sammy,” Dean said shakily, cradling Sam’s head in his lap. He brushed his matted hair from his giant forehead, trying to at least cool him down. “You’re fine. It’s not even— not even a scratch.”

Castiel suddenly appeared at Sam’s side, one hand hovering over his little brother’s busted leg. Dean’s head shot up on instinct, but Castiel’s intense glare shut down any rising protest immediately. The Seraph gently laid his hand on Sam’s thigh, above the wound, and leaned down so Sam could hear him.

“Sam, your leg is broken. May I heal it.”

“Yes,” Sam said immediately.

Castiel moved his hand. A brief glow shone between the flesh of Castiel’s palm and Sam’s leg and — it was miraculous, but Dean couldn’t stomach it. Instead, he watched a look of pain contort the Seraph’s features and a wave of relief wash over Sam’s.

“Oh my god,” Sam sighed, sitting up and grabbing his leg. “Thank you.”

Castiel fell back on his haunches and blinked by way of response.

Dean held Sam by the shoulder, giving him a look-over. “You good?”

Sam nodded, wide-eyed. “Looks like.”

“Don’t _ever_ do that again,” Dean scolded, halfway to a sob.

“Not planning on it.” Sam winced hard and pinched the bridge of his nose. “ _Ah,_ I—”

“You hit your head?” Dean squawked.

Sam shook his head and opened his eyes, which were suddenly quite watery. “I just… had a weird… deja vu or something. Like a sudden... from when I couldn't save…” He swallowed, studying Dean with his dewy gaze. “Never mind. Let’s get a move on.”

Dean attempted to help Sam to his feet, but his ankle gave out beneath him, and it ended up being Sam who helped Dean up. Castiel groaned from the ground.

“Here,” Dean said, offering Castiel a hand. He grabbed it. Both of them were in so much pain, they nearly took each other back down. With Sam’s assistance, they remained standing, albeit wobbly.

“If I heal your ankle now…” Castiel began.

“Leave it, we’ll fix it later,” Dean said quickly. Castiel looked positively drained; it must have been a bad break. “Just lean on me, we’ll be fine.”

Castiel took Dean up on the offer, putting his weight into Dean’s good side.

“We need to find the others,” Sam said.

Dean nodded. “I’d hoped we led the Hellhound away from the Seal, but I don’t see it anywh—”

A large shadow passed over their heads and, a moment later, the huge body it belonged to landed in the mud with a ground-shaking _thump_. The Hellhound had leapt from the jungle, over the bluff, and down to the flat below in a single graceful bound.

This Hellhound was larger than any Dean had seen before, larger even than the one on Gehenna, and in the direct sunlight all of its disgusting features were completely visible. Its beady eyes were blood-red, the drooling fangs up to ten inches long, the charcoal fur rippling with the thick muscles underneath.

It pawed the ground as it snarled at them, glistening gums pulled back to display all its terrible teeth. The hound's black nose sniffed the air, the huge nostrils flaring, and, apparently deciding they did not smell good, the dog narrowed its crimson eyes at the three officers.

“Never did like Clifford, the big ugly bitch,” Dean said.

“Who?” Castiel asked.

“Dean,” Sam hissed. He grabbed Dean’s arm, probably thinking they were about to die. As Dean stared into the Hellhound’s soulless eyes, he couldn’t say he felt differently.

Still, Dean would remain petulant, or die trying.

“Why don’t you run home to Emily Elizabeth?” he attempted.

“Emily Elizabeth tagged along,” an unfamiliar female voice sang out.

Dean stared at the wolfish creature in horror. He knew quite a bit about Hellhounds, but he didn’t think they could, you know, _speak_.

“Down, Dybbuk,” said the voice again, and Dean, still stunned, almost kneeled in response, until the Hellhound ducked its head and folded its legs to rest on the ground. The action revealed that the terrible hound had a rider — a small, dark-haired Klingon woman wearing classic gold chainmail armor — as well as four unconscious captives — two in red, one in blue, and one in Captain’s green — and one piece of precious cargo — the Seal.

“Bitch,” Dean breathed, feeling his insides frost over with dread. They were so screwed.

“It’s Meg, actually,” the Klingon said. Her voice was eely and slick and her Standard was flawless. It reminded Dean of somebody he once knew. Castiel’s weight on his side grew ever heavier.

“You got the Clifford reference,” Dean remarked, as if that was more important than the fact that Ellen, Ash, Ketch, and Jody were currently lying limp on a Hellhound’s back.

“Know thine enemy,” Meg declared. “I read Terran. Boring, but I read it.”

“What do you want, Meg?” Sam asked. His brow was furrowed, his triangular jaw set firm.

“Oh, I’ve got it,” Meg smiled, tossing a thumb back to her captives. “One Seal for the war machine, one Starfleet captain for Lilith, two expendables for Dybbuk kibble.” She gave the Hellhound a scratch behind its ears. It bared its teeth and snarled at Dean. “Now, you…” Her dark eyes widened and she gasped. “A Seraph? And a weak one, too! Isn’t this my lucky day.”

Castiel straightened at Dean’s side. He seemed to have gotten some strength back, but his face was still pale.

“You cannot use the Seals,” Castiel said, voice gravelly. “You don’t know how.”

Meg threw her head back and laughed. Dean snuck a glance at Castiel; he was pulling his sinister glower, the one that nearly had Dean pee himself back on the _Orion_ yesterday when it had been directed at him — _I dragged you out of your deathbed, I could throw you back in_ — but it evidently had no effect on the Klingon.

“Really,” Meg chuckled, recovering. She paused, tilting her head with a sickening smirk. “You think we don’t know about the vessels? The Last Battlefield?” She leaned forward on her Hellhound, baring her own teeth. “Our Father loves his children. Lucifer will rise, and he will claim Genesis. And so it was _written._ Right, my little Seraph friend?”

“Castiel, what the hell is she talking about?” Dean asked.

The Seraph swallowed. “I… I don’t…”

He winced then, _hard_ , and flinched against Dean’s side, nearly sending them both plunging to the ground.

"Castiel?!"

Castiel groaned, grabbing his head.

“Oh, he’s been _damaged_ ,” Meg admired. Dean's thoughts tripped over themselves; this was all complicating at an exponential rate. “As much as I like to crack a gourd, that really makes my job easier. Yeah, I think you’re the real prize, Blue Eyes. What do you think, Dybbuk?”

Dybbuk growled.

“Yes, you have a point,” Meg said lightly, pursing her lips. “You two I don’t need.” She whipped a disruptor gun from her belt loop and pointed it straight at Dean.

“Don’t—” Sam protested.

“What, kill you?” Meg scoffed sweetly. “' _Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.’_ A Klingon wrote that, and he was right.”

A blast rang out.

Darkness.

Dean was still breathing. He realized he’d squeezed his eyes shut. He opened them slowly.

Meg was frozen in place, her face twisted in a sneer and her finger against the trigger, paralyzed in the soft glowing bubble of mysterious energy surrounding her. Dybbuk the Hellhound was calm where it rested its head in the blue mud, as if it were nothing more than an overgrown German Shepherd.

Before Dean could come up with a snappy one-liner to help himself cope with the turn of events, something moved in his peripheral vision. A man stepped out from behind a large, fallen tree. He was short and slender, clad entirely in black formals, wielding a mysterious gun. The man strode past Dean, Sam, and Castiel, obviously well aware that they were there, intentionally demonstrating his disinterest in them. He approached the pacified Dybbuk and gave it a loving rub on its noggin.

“Good doggy.”

The man turned. His face was handsomely soft and his eyes were cleverly kind but he was, unmistakably, another Klingon.

“Hello, boys,” he greeted the Starfleet officers. The corner of his lip curled upward in a tiny smile. “I believe we have some catching up to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter summary:  
> Not all Klingons wear chain mail.
> 
> I was gonna upload this last week but my city was hit by a derecho: an extremely destructive in-line hurricane (in the Midwest! Crazy, right?) that lasted for three hours and knocked out the power across the city. We lost a bunch of trees and had no electricity or internet for five days. My college is in the state and their power got knocked out too, and since we’re learning remotely, they had to postpone the start of classes by a week. Life is insane.
> 
> This chapter was super fun to write (even if the pacing gave me HELL) and I’m very excited about the next direction it’s heading. Lots of shit is about to go down. (A derecho, per se.) By the way, if you want a visual of the EV suits, google "star trek tos space suit" and it should pop up. They are so dang cute.
> 
> I also feel compelled to mention this now instead of later — if you're wondering why this is already listed as part of a series, it's because once I finish (or abandon, god forbid) this story, I want to write smaller "case" fics set in this same universe. I had a lot of ideas for this story I had to scrap once I settled on a plot, but there's still enough meat that I could write episode-style vignettes. I just love Star Trek so much!
> 
> THANK YOU all for reading this, and thank all of you who leave a kudo or a comment or a prediction or a suggestion. All of it means so much to me! You fill my days with joy!!! :D


	6. Welcome to Babel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all Klingons wear chain mail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate giving plot context in the notes because it feels like cheating, so this one is only significant if you know Star Trek well enough to care about the different generations of Klingons.
> 
> I've tried to write the story so this is clear already, but just in case, I shall reiterate: these Klingons are like those of the TOS canon, not TNG and beyond. So, no ridged foreheads and bushy eyebrows, and their culture is a bit less complex and refined than it is later on. They sure are proud, warlike, and principled, but they're just... bitchier. Less Samurai-like, as they are in later Trek, and more totalitarian dickbags. You know the ones from The Trouble with Tribbles? Yeah. Them.

**Stardate 10972** — _Now_

“Call me Crowley.” The Klingon let his gun-toting arm relax at his side and shifted his weight to one leg. His swagger-to-height ratio was ridiculously disproportionate, which somehow made him rather intimidating.

“Charmed,” Sam forced out, frowning.

There was something off about this character, but Dean couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He had the appearance of a Klingon — the glint of the eyes, the fierce glare, the haughty puffiness in the chest — but something wasn’t sitting right. He was lacking that signature gladiatorial dominance.

“You’re no warrior,” Dean concluded, stomach dropping as soon as the words passed his lips. To say that to a Klingon meant you were disgracing their honor, and disgracing their honor meant you were disparaging their lifeblood… it was a whole big thing, and it never did end pretty.

But Crowley simply smiled. “Quite the contrary,” he said. “But as warriors go, I am a progressive. I don’t involve myself in the nitty-gritty.” He paused, cocking an eyebrow. “...Often. I prefer to wage battles behind the scenes, with words and statistics and strategies. If you ever had the inkling, I would gladly battle you in an amicable round of tri-dimensional chess. I do so adore making new friends.”

“Well, I don’t,” said Dean, who was two heartbeats of residual John Winchester panic away from just phasering this dude and beaming the party back up already. “What the hell is going on?”

“Yeah, who are you, really?” Sam demanded, training his phaser on the Klingon. “Why should we listen to you?”

“One question at a time, please, give everyone a turn,” Crowley said lightly. “And besides, good sirs, you have me at a disadvantage.”

It was much too hot out and Dean did not have the patience for this. He jerked his head at his brother. “Sam,” Dean spat, flicking his chin upward, “and Dean,” and after a brief moment of hesitation, “and Cas. Now answer the damn questions.”

Omitting their surnames would theoretically avoid having them tied to that whole Azazel thing — there was no telling how any individual Klingon would react to finding out that the Winchester who Did That was their father — and introducing Castiel with something more human-sounding would, Dean hoped, hide his status as a Seraph. Because whatever Meg was saying about being broken and claiming Genesis sounded game-changing, and it would be nice to just handle one thing at a time without making that worse.

Of course, even if calling him “Cas” might deceive a human, Klingons were apparently able to sense the presence of a Seraph at a mere glance, so… 

Dean held his breath, but Crowley’s smile persisted.

“A pleasure. Sam. Dean. Cas.” He showed no sign of naivety nor suspicion, all cool and collected and a thousand percent at ease.

 _Like some sort of anti-Castiel_. Of course, that didn’t mean Crowley was any less creepy.

Castiel, as if hearing Dean’s thoughts, shifted at his side, seemingly recovered from whatever that brain freeze had been a minute ago. They exchanged a glance. Those wide, droopy eyes just _looked,_ unblinking and unfeeling, but now… somehow Dean felt reassured, like the two were thinking the same thing. Maybe.

“Great, nice to meet you,” Sam said, and wiggled his phaser. “Now spill.”

Dybbuk, blinking his ugly red eyes as he looked from Crowley to the officers, let out a deep huff.

“On Kronos, I’m in charge of minor trade deals, communications, war strategies,” Crowley said, patting the Hellhound on the head again. “A bit like an ambassador, a bit like a commander… I could explain it in detail, but who cares, really. Like I said, I’m not much of a traditionalist. Or a patriot, for that matter.”

“And how does _that_ happen to a Klingon?” Dean scoffed.

“Really?” Crowley chuckled. “Don’t tell me Starfleet officers are rusty on Kronos’ current events.”

“Our households aren’t exactly on speaking terms,” Dean said.

“Even Meg, who I despise, has the presence of intellect to study Terran culture as thoroughly as ancient children’s literature,” Crowley sneered with a distasteful glance at the female Klingon, still frozen in that soft glowing bubble. “No wonder you believe you descended from apes. Feral, the lot of you.”

“Azazel’s death,” Castiel said, stepping away from Dean to stand on his own. “Wanted by Federation authorities as he was, he was still a member of the Klingon High Council. His death skewed their politics into chaos, and factions arose to nominate—”

“I know, Cast— I _know_.” Dean held up a hand to hush the Seraph. “Let’s hear it from him.”

Crowley hummed thoughtfully, and Dean studied him, his stomach twisting itself in knots, waiting for the moment he’d reveal his intentions to be just as hostile as Meg’s.

“Azazel wasn’t exactly the most admirable leader to begin with,” Crowley said, as if he were merely discussing coworker drama. “Our race is extreme by nature, but he was _extreme._ A total nut-job, really — obsessed with reviving our oldest religion, slaying all weaker races, bringing about the domination of Klingon rule across the galaxy… Can’t say I was ever a fan.”

Sam had lowered his phaser to be trained on the ground instead of Crowley. Dean, however, was still too confused to relax.

“New extremists arose, as they do.” Crowley said. “And factions with them. The vast majority are those desperate to maintain the status quo, but they lack a real leader. And then there are the progressives — or rather, practical-minded atheists, followers of—” he did a tiny curtsy, “—yours truly. And then there are the fanatics, like Meg here: Neo-conservative religious zealots who adored Azazel, intent on reviving our old ways, followers of our newest psychopath, Lilith. But I believe Starfleet knew the gist of all this, what with your recent efforts to reach out to Gehenna.”

Dean and Sam nodded — besides the name-dropping, all of this information was review.

“Of course, with the disintegration of the Council, the planet is now struggling to unite under a new Chancellor.”

“But on Gehenna — Chancellor Alastair…?” Sam prompted.

“Oh, please,” Crowley groaned. “The only thing he’s chancellor of is that smelly little dog pound.”

“Exactly what role does he play between the factions?” Castiel asked.

“None. He’s been content with what he has,” Crowley said. “However, it’s a shame that mission of yours didn’t go more smoothly. With a solid trade deal on Gehenna, I may have swung him to my side.”

Dean swallowed, but Crowley’s casual gaze gave him no indication whether or not he was using the royal “you”.

“The Chancellor position is, quite literally, up for grabs,” Crowley said. “I wouldn’t mind having the position myself — it would be grand if we were to finally make peace with the Federation. Isolationism is so twenty-first century. Unfortunately, that whore Lilith is my biggest competition. She believes Lucifer can be ‘risen’.” Crowley tossed his hands dismissively. “That’s all a bunch of conservative baloney, if you ask me. Lucifer died in The Cage eons ago.”

That name again. Dean, forgetting his ankle, took a step forward, regretting it immediately. “Who is Lucifer?” He barked through the pain.

Crowley squinted. “Why don’t you ask Castiel?”

Dean froze. ”How do you—”

“Please,” Crowley said. “I’m a Klingon intensely interested in the diddlings of Starfleet. You think I wouldn’t recognize the one Seraph currently in their rotation?”

Well, so much for the privilege of anonymity. Dean glanced at Castiel, but the Seraph was staring at him with the same flat look as before. Apparently they _hadn’t_ been thinking the same thing earlier.

“So, you gonna elaborate?” Dean said to the science officer.

“In our faith,” Castiel said, “the Great Father created the celestial universe. Seraphim were the first he created, his soldiers, to safeguard his lesser creations—”

“Damn, tell us how you really feel.”

“Lesser is not meant to insult,” Castiel all but groaned. He set his jaw and continued, gazing through the middle distance like he had when addressing Zachariah. “We have a proverb of our Father’s oldest two creations, the brothers Michael and Lucifer. They were meant to safeguard the universe together with us, the Host, under their command. But Lucifer — he allowed emotions to corrupt him. He wanted to destroy, to stoke chaos and hatred, whereas Michael believed in enforcing peace through logic. Because of this, Lucifer was banished, and the grace of Michael has led us in our Great Father’s absence ever since.”

“I’m confused,” Sam said. “Is that, like, a fairy tale, or is that your actual history?”

“Loaded question to ask a Seraph, no?” Crowley jutted in. “Long story short, yes, Lucifer was real — at least, a real nasty fellow. By ‘banished’, Castiel means he was thrown in The Cage, deep in Leviathan space. Now, whether he was thrown in there for defying the Great Father, or for committing war crimes, or just to self-isolate for a bit, that’s a bit more subjective.”

Castiel was nodding, but his brow was knit tightly over those droopy blue eyes. It wasn’t until Dean observed Castiel’s confusion that he realized the kind of stupid faces _he_ must be making at the moment. Dean focused on the weight of the phaser in his hand as he tried to weave the details together in his mind.

“Why…” Dean glanced between Castiel, Crowley, Meg, and that disgusting dog. “If Lucifer was one of the first Seraphim, why do the _Klingons_ want to revive him?”

Crowley smiled, pointing at Dean like a professor who had been waiting around for this exact question to be asked.

“It’s funny how different cultures twist the stories of historical figures about,” Crowley said. “Lucifer, whoever or whatever he was, certainly existed. But where he is a villain to Seraphim, he is a hero — a deity — to some Klingons. They truly believe he was the first of our race, that because of his righteous, violent worldview, we, ‘his children’, were also higher beings on the evolutionary scale.”

“Lucifer was _not_ the first Klingon,” Castiel stated gruffly. It was the first thing he’d said since Meg showed up that he sounded fully certain of.

“On that we agree,” Crowley said. “Like I said, Azazel’s death and the disintegration of our core leadership is what’s sparked this ridiculous surge in Lucifer’s Klingon following.”

Dean finally registered his lower lip stinging — he’d chewed it raw. Dean glanced past Meg’s paralyzed body to check that Ellen, Jody, Ketch, and Ash hadn’t begun to decompose or disappear or anything.

“They’re — they _are_ alive, right?”

Crowley threw a look over his shoulder. “They’re fine. They’ll wake up soon.”

Why did Dean have to be the one conscious for this part? What he wouldn’t give to swap places with Ketch; slip a quick nap in while Whiny McRedshirt got to suffer through diplomacy for a change. Then he at least could rely on someone else to deal with the whole We-Accidentally-Destroyed-Kronos’-Political-Stability thing. Like, yes, Azazel’s execution was Federation-sanctioned, so all Starfleet officers could be held guilty for it, but Sam and Dean were the only ones whose father did the actual killing.

“Alright,” Sam said. The tone in his voice reassured Dean that his brother was on at least the same page, if not the page ahead of him. “We’ve established who you are. And why we should trust you. But you still haven’t explained why you’re _here_.”

Crowley slowly swept an arm toward Meg. “I thought that was obvious.”

The three officers remained silent.

“I came to prevent Meg from stealing your Seal,” Crowley sighed. “Which, by the way, you’re welcome.”

This didn’t feel right. “But _why?_ ” Dean pressed.

At that moment, a shout interrupted the calmness of their meeting. Dean stepped toward the noise, raising his phaser, and promptly found himself crashing to the mud when his ankle gave out beneath him. Sam jumped awkwardly between the fallen Dean and the new intruder — who could now be seen jogging out from the trees in the opposite direction as Crowley had appeared — while Castiel stepped behind Dean protectively. Dean, adamant to be useful, aimed his phaser out towards the figure through Sam’s wide stance.

It was hard to tell from his position in the mud, but it looked to Dean like another female Klingon, slightly smaller than Meg in stature, and _significantly_ more pissed off. She unclipped something from her waist — _a gun!_ Just before Dean’s finger twitched over the trigger, she raised the weapon and threw it, the entire damn thing, at Crowley’s head.

He leaned aside elegantly as the gun sailed past, not once breaking eye contact with her.

“Hello, Ruby,” he said calmly. “Was wondering where you got off to.”

“You _left_ me!” She squawked.

“Your detour wasn’t part of the plan,” Crowley said. “I had to handle it. I knew you’d catch up.”

“I could have been dead.”

“Well, then you would have been dead. The show must go on.”

“Whatever.” She spat. She turned to Dean, Sam, and Castiel, the anger draining from her face. She had dark, sad eyes and viciously tilted brows — two features that managed to cancel each other out and render her rather approachable-looking, especially by Klingon standards. 

“Hey,” she deadpanned. If the attitude Crowley addressed the officers with could be described as detached amusement, hers was absolute nonchalance. “Ruby. Klingon. Would like to stop the apocalypse.”

A few beats passed as the moment sank in. The humidity, adrenaline, and screwed-up ankle had Dean’s brain in caveman mode. _Not threat? No shoot?_

“So… you’re a progressive too?” Sam presumed.

“I hate Lilith,” Ruby sort of confirmed. She tossed Crowley another glare, but it was less seething this time — more just plain tired. “Crowley’s a bitch too, of course, but at least his heart’s in the right place. It’s why I suffer working with him. Looks like he gave you the talk. Why is he on the ground?”

Dean quickly scrambled to his hands and knees. His ankle no longer pulsed a dull throb; it had now reached a shrill screech.

“This was simply a stylist— _shit—”_ as soon as he put weight on his ankle, the ground shot up to meet him again. “Stylistic choice.”

Castiel kneeled, his hands drawn to his chest uncomfortably, like it was taking all his effort to not just reach out and grab the swollen knob where Dean’s ankle might be inside his boot.

“Would you like me to heal it?” Castiel asked.

“But you were—” Dean sucked back a yelp, shutting his eyes against the stars in his vision. “Only if you’re better now.”

Castiel’s hand was inching closer of its own accord. “I am fine.”

“‘Kay, help yourself,” Dean caved. Castiel latched onto Dean’s leg very gently, pulling his pant leg from his boot to make contact with his skin. Dean looked away, the skin tingling beneath the Seraph’s palm and the wound pulsing hotly, until the hand retreated and he could roll his foot around again.

Dean got to his feet, helping Castiel up but avoiding eye contact with him — something about the fact that the Seraph grew so weak after a healing was deeply unsettling to him — and glared at Ruby. His mind much clearer now that it was free of the burden of pain, Dean finally noticed the dark welt on the Klingon’s temple.

“Hell of a shiner,” Dean remarked.

“Yeah, Meg’s handwriting,” Ruby said. “I tried to intercept her in the jungle, but she got me with your crew, and—”

“We assumed,” Crowley dismissed. He turned to the officers — _again_ wearing that not-completely-disingenuous smile. “Ruby’s like my attack dog, my distraction—”

“Your _bait,_ ” Ruby corrected bitterly.

“You love it,” Crowley retorted. “She does the dirty work, while I collect. So far, we’ve made a pretty dashing team.”

“I do like the dirty work,” Ruby admitted, finally cracking the tiniest of smiles.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Sam stammered. “What do you mean, ‘so far’? Collecting what?”

“I’ve been _trying_ to tell you, but I keep getting interrupted!” Crowley exclaimed. “The whole mission is to save the Seals from—”

“ _HOSTILES AT TWO O’CLOCK!_ ” Ketch hollered, choosing that exact instant to gain consciousness, bolt upright on Dybbuk’s back, and aim his gun at Crowley.

Dean leapt forward to put himself between the two of them, holding out his arms like some kind of forcefield.

“Ketch, no! Allies! I think.” Dean steeled himself as he stared Ketch down, the redshirt still bleary with artificial sleep and jumpy with panic, blinking his eyes dumbly. Dean forced himself to ignore the hot stench radiating off of the Hellhound in front of him. This was the closest he’d been to a beast like this since… since... 

“Allies?” Ketch repeated, taking in the faces around him. He looked down and gasped. “Oh my God, I am on a bloody dog.”

“He won’t bite,” Crowley said.

Ketch whimpered something unintelligible and gingerly eased himself off of the Hellhound’s back.

His movement sparked the other unconscious officers to stir. Sam and Castiel joined Dean at Crowley’s side, Ruby hanging a few yards away, Meg remaining frozen stiff. Ellen, Ash, and Jody sat up, clutching their heads.

“Fuckin’ disruptor guns,” Jody griped. When she noticed the new Klingon faces, she plastered on a smile. “Amazing tech, though.”

“Don’t worry,” Crowley said. “I’m one of the good guys.”

Jody relaxed and rubbed her temples harder. “ _F_ _ucking_ disruptor guns.”

Ellen slid off the Hellhound, her eyes full of suspicion, but no doubt connecting all the dots much faster than Dean had been able to.

“Good guys, huh?” She glanced at Castiel for confirmation.

The Seraph, still pale after healing Dean, nodded — but he had other concerns. “Are you hurt?”

“ _Dude_ ,” Dean said before he could stop himself. “Take it easy, you just put me and Sam back together.”

Castiel stared at Dean. If Dean didn’t know better, he would say Castiel was offended.

“I’m alright, Castiel,” Ellen said. She took a step toward Crowley, extending a hand. “I am Captain Ellen Harvelle of the Starship _Orion_.”

“Crowley,” Crowley responded, taking her hand with remarkably human charisma, “King of the Crossroads. But that’s just a nickname. I simply make deals.”

“I’ve heard of you,” Ellen said calmly. She performed a slow turn, taking in the scene. “The factions, and the, ah…” she pointed at Meg with a quirked eyebrow. “The zealots?”

Catching Ellen and the others up was much simpler now that everybody’s bodies were in one piece and their phasers had been safely holstered. Much like Sam and Dean, beyond the specifics of faction politics and Lilith’s motivations, Ellen had a fair grasp over the situation on Kronos — any less, of course, would be concerning, given her occupation.

Even though the recap was brief, when Ash started derailing the conversation with his inquiries about Crowley’s special freeze ray — _“It’s a sort of temporal suspension device_ ” _—_ the humidity finally cracked through the humans’ resolve. 

“Is there any reason we can’t discuss this on the ship?” Sam asked with a breathy laugh. He was so sweaty, Dean could nearly see his own reflection in his skin. Dean’s stomach cramped, his throat tasting of bile, a likely warning of impending heat stroke.

“Well, actually, I really shouldn’t beam up,” Crowley hesitated, and Dean groaned. “I’m sorry. I mustn’t leave Meg alone. I am to take her with me.”

“Take her with you where?” Ellen asked. She scanned Sam and Dean and sighed. “Winchesters, you may be dismissed to beam up, you look awful.”

Sam smiled tightly. “No, we’ll stay—”

“ _Winchesters?_ ” Ruby gasped.

Dean, pulse racing, threw Ellen a face, and her mouth formed a tiny “oh”. The Captain’s eyes, however, suggested she was less than enthusiastic about his and Sam’s efforts to remain anonymous. They had, after all, talked about what they would do in this exact scenario before, and they hadn’t agreed. _Just own it,_ Ellen had told him. _You’ve got backup if they take offense_.

Well, better to take offense later than sooner, because at least now the backup was awake. Dean set his jaw and looked to Ruby, preparing his “Defend Dad’s Honor” speech in his mind.

" _The_ Winchesters?” She laughed a little, her eyes wide and mouth agape. “Crowley, you didn’t say.”

He shrugged. “They didn’t tell me.” He didn’t seem to be the least bit affected by this revelation.

“Yeah, uh, that whole assassination thing, that was our dad on that mission,” Dean began.

“Who cares,” Ruby dismissed. Okay, weird. She was grinning: also weird. “No, you two… you’re the ones from Gehenna! You’re… _you’re_ from the Rack!”

Dean’s mouth went dry, his already nauseous stomach doing an extra flip. In his peripheral vision, he saw Castiel whip his head in his direction.

“What?” Dean gulped.

Ruby frowned at him. “No, not you, I mean—” she pointed to Sam with absolute astonishment. “You!”

Sam’s lips flopped about like a dying fish. “M— _me?_ ”

“Sam Winchester,” Ruby lauded. “You led the storm into the facilities. That makes you _that_ Dean — oh, and sorry about what you went through, word travels fast, but—” Ruby tripped over her words as she ogled Dean’s little brother. “ _Sam!_ Do you _realize_ how afraid those cretins are of you? You’re literally all anyone who’s anyone is talking about.”

Sam’s face had been flushed to begin with, but now he was beet-red. From horror or flattery was impossible to tell.

“Oh.” He blinked quickly. “I just wanted to. Save. Y’know. Brother. Yeah.”

“And you _did,_ ” Ruby beamed, practically drooling. 

“Ruby,” Crowley warned.

She collected herself, but remained awfully close to Sam’s side, eyeing him proudly. “He’s so cool,” she muttered, like a leaky faucet.

“I was a commanding officer on the siege of the Rack as well, if that matters,” Ketch announced, deeply wounded. When Ruby didn’t acknowledge him, Dean caught Ketch’s eye and tried to smile at him, but the security officer just pursed his lips and glared at the mud.

“Where will you be taking Meg?” Ellen repeated. As she spoke, she reached to remove the Seal off of Dybbuk’s back, not taking her eyes off Crowley. When Crowley did nothing to stop her, she passed the Seal to Castiel, who embraced it like one would a beautiful woman.

“To Kronos,” Crowley said simply. “To my people. We have questions for her.”

Ellen nodded. “I assume you are on Vega Prime to intercept her?”

Dean remembered something. “Yeah, uh, right before Crowley showed up, Meg mentioned Genesis. Care to explain why—”

“Rather impatient in the heat, these humans, no?” Crowley said, levelling his gaze at Dean, his round eyes so intense Dean didn’t even register the height difference.

“Indeed,” Castiel asserted.

Crowley returned his focus to Ellen. “You may have heard the rumors about Project Genesis.”

Dean remembered the stories from his preteen years, before their official Starfleet lives began, when they spent their days floating through space with nothing to listen to except Dad’s rampant political opinions. Project Genesis had been big back then. As far as Dean was concerned, whatever was being dredged up now was all conspiracy theory.

“I’m fairly certain they’re just that — rumors,” Crowley said, “but as they say, where there is life, there is hope. Or something. In a nutshell, Lilith and her goons are convinced Genesis is being tested again, and they believe these unbelievably powerful little buggers—” he jerked a thumb to the stupid box Castiel was cradling, “—are Genesis’ missing ingredient.”

“Misusing the Seals alone would be enough to terrorize millions,” Ellen said, her brow furrowing. “Why are they intent on Genesis?”

Sam tapped Dean. “Meg mentioned a battlefield or something, right?”

“Yeah, and vessels,” Dean said. “Some impending starship shootout?”

Crowley squinted. “The prophecy of the Last Battlefield is a rather ancient belief. Dates back to the origins of Lucifer’s legends. Castiel hasn’t told you?”

Castiel cleared his throat. He was wearing that pained thousand-yard-stare again. _As much as I like to crack a gourd, that really makes my job easier…_ Dean had thought Castiel was just weird like that, but now he wasn’t so sure.

“Both Elysium and Kronos have their own versions of this prophecy, based on their own interpretations of Lucifer,” Castiel said in a tone reminiscent of audio-documentary files. “It is the only religious doctrine we have in common.” He paused. “However, I am not familiar with it. The prophecy was a subject of great suffering in our past. Only our highest commanders have the clearance to know it now.”

At this point, the Seraphim culture was so absolutely creepy, it was comedic. Dean would have laughed if Castiel didn’t look so disturbed. And if Dean wasn’t _fucking melting_.

“Then I shall respect your culture by sparing you the details,” Crowley responded. “Basically — and this is open to any kind of interpretation — it depicts the end of the known world and birth of a better one. It culminates in a battle between the galaxy’s most powerful armies. It involves the religious figures Michael and Lucifer. Fill in the blanks to your own heart’s content, but Lilith has decided Genesis is somehow involved in this.”

“She wants to start an intergalactic war and blow us _all_ up,” Ruby summarized. “Azazel, stolen seals, kind of a perfect storm.”

Dean turned around to vomit in the mud.

“Iss’hot out,” he garbled loudly before anyone could question him. He turned back around, lifting the collar of his shirt to wipe his mouth. Sensing a mob about to pounce with concerned pandering, he blurted, “And y’all are here to save the Seals, or what?”

Dybbuk huffed deeply, staring at the puddle of puke like a forbidden treat. Sam gagged.

“Yes. To assist _your_ mission.” Crowley was quickly shedding his serene composure. “My whole trajectory is to help intercept the zealots after the Seals to return them to _you,_ and therefore, Elysium. I don’t want Lilith to get Genesis, or the Seals, any more than you do. I want to join the Federation, and to do that, I need the Federation to _like_ me. I need Lilith not to blow it all up.”

Ellen’s arms were crossed now, her stance wide. Dean hadn’t been paying much attention to her, but her eyes were narrowed and her mouth pressed thin, displaying a similar expression of skepticism as she had with Zachariah and Uriel.

“And how do I know you’re telling the truth?” Ellen asked. “That you’re not covering for being caught red-handed?”

“Well, he did save our asses,” Sam said.

“Klingons manipulate,” Ketch countered, his hand at his belt.

Ruby huffed. “ _Why_ waste the effort to save you if we weren’t on your side?”

The two parties stared at each other restlessly — not even the loud gurgling in Dean’s stomach could break the ice. Well, heat. Whatever. Dean needed a glass of water.

“Okey-dokey,” Crowley said finally. “Evidently we still mistrust each other. Healthily so, I suppose. I propose you take the Seal, return it to your Seraph bosses, get back to your mission, and if you’re really still so concerned about our intentions — even after I’ve so explicitly demonstrated my alliances to your side — give Naomi a ring.”

Ellen smiled stiffly. “Naomi? I didn’t realize you had friends in such high places.”

“Unlike some people,” Crowley sang, looking back at Dean, “I am good at making friends.”

Dean opened his mouth to defend his honor and promptly threw up again.

* * *

Sam took a thirty minute shower while Dean went through his third Sick Bay ordeal of the past two days. Sam felt soiled in every sense of the word — soaked through with his own juices and the sticky mud of Vega Prime, splashed with Dean’s vomit, uneasy with the growing weight of intergalactic turmoil, and deeply disturbed by the way Ruby had mooned over him. He violently scrubbed his scalp until he worried his hair might start thinning.

Of all the ordeals they’d undergone today, Sam reflected, it seemed rather fitting he was to blame for Dean getting sick. As soon as the Sick Bay doors had opened, Bobby asked _What did he eat?_ and one exasperated _Oh._ from Castiel had signified to Sam that he had done something horribly wrong.

The damn pity cheeseburger. Dean’s new digestive track. And of course the heat exhaustion was nothing but a catalyst. Sam should have known.

“You poisoned me!” Dean moaned, and he’d obviously been joking, wearing his giddiest smile even though chunks of half-digested cow meat still dripped from his chin. Sam should have laughed, because could their lives be any more ridiculous at this point? He should have laughed at Ruby too, and at the way Ketch looked so offended all the time, and at the ridiculous mini-speech Castiel gave him about making his job as Dean’s guardian that much harder.

But Dean was good at laughing at things that were stupid and ridiculous, about turning their mistakes into humor highlight reels. Or at least, he pretended to be, for Sam’s sake — but at this point, being fluent at pretending not to care was as useful a skill as not actually caring. Lying had never been Sam’s strong suit. He wasn’t going to pretend he wasn’t afraid.

Of what, he didn’t know, which was probably the worst part. Dean’s safety? It was like a drone in Sam’s head at all times, but that wasn’t new. There was something more. Maybe it was the nightmares — how he kept dreaming about the nights he lost Jessica and Dad and Dean. When Castiel healed his leg, Sam had looked up and seen Dean surrounded by Klingons, being dragged away, his face twisted in fear. It was a trick of the light, and the deja vu faded as quickly as it came, but Dean’s facial expression remained the same. And then Ruby had up and revered him for the most inhuman actions of his life. He was haunted.

Sam didn’t turn the water off until he resembled a boiled lobster. Maybe he, too, could use a Seraph walling up memories in his head. Guilt was a cancer in his stomach, one he’d suffered his whole life — and he could easily go on suffering it. But maybe… Maybe he didn’t have to.

No. Dean had not been Dean after Gehenna, not physically, not psychologically. But Sam was still Sam. He would be fine. And Dean was fine. Everything was fine.

Sam dressed himself, downed a whopping glass of ice water, and passed by Sick Bay again to retrieve his brother. Dean shuffled out looking much cleaner and healthier than he had half an hour ago, although he was cradling his midsection, and dark bags lurked under his eyes.

“You good?” Sam asked. Dean turned up his nose at him.

“You got me put on a liquid diet, bitch,” he said.

Sam shook his head. The brothers made their way to the turbolift in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. For the first time in a while, actually, Sam was starting to feel calm. Grateful, almost. When the scarlet turbolift doors shut behind them, Sam smiled.

“How’s the arrangement?”

“The what?” Dean grunted.

“With Castiel,” Sam said. “I mean, it seemed like you got along alright today.”

Dean was unreadable. “He does his job.”

“Healed me,” Sam offered, trying to get more of a reveal. Dean winced a little at that, which was more a negative reaction than he’d hoped for. Sam went for Dean’s safety route instead. “Dude, it fucking _tickles._ ”

Dean’s entire face jumped to life at the first sign of humor. “I _know,_ right?!”

Sam laughed. “It’s like, gentle, but also… invasive.”

“I have been _trying_ to tell you,” Dean insisted, smiling. “It’s like fuckin’— you feel it all buzzing inside— like he’s touchin’ me and it’s all warm and gooey in there—”

“Yeah, maybe I’ll break my leg more often,” Sam joked.

Dean shuddered and flushed.

“I _will_ throw up on you again,” he warned. His eyes glinted with maliciousness. “And hey. Don’t make your new Klingon girlfriend jealous.”

Sam groaned. “Now _I’m_ gonna throw up.”

“The _Retch_ -chesters,” Dean muttered as the turbolift doors slid open. It was such a bad joke, Sam entered the bridge cackling.

It faded out immediately; Naomi’s face was on the viewscreen.

Sam had never seen this Naomi, and only knew what he’d learned about her at the Academy, which wasn’t much, besides that she was one of Elysium’s great leaders. But once Sam saw her, he knew her in an instant. Perhaps it was because he’d gotten used to Castiel as of late, and her eyes — huge, vacant, boring through space and time itself — were incredibly reminiscent of their first officer’s. That, plus her dark gray formals, her brown hair’s simple updo, and the pristine white office in which she was located all clued Sam in to exactly who she was.

He and Dean went unacknowledged as they swiftly, silently moved from the entryway to their seats at the helm, aside from Claire and Ensign Jones leaving their temporary positions as their substitutes to allow them to sit down. Ellen was in mid-conversation with Naomi, and as Sam situated himself, trying to keep his movements as unobtrusive as possible, he tuned in.

“...Lilith’s plans for Genesis have been the topic of much debate among our elders,” Naomi was saying. “We have determined it is not something to be concerned about, as Genesis was proven to be a failed experiment.”

“There are rumors,” Ellen countered.

“The very notion of rumor-related anxiety is highly illogical,” Naomi said.

“I’m merely observing.”

“The rumors are untrue,” Naomi insisted. “I oversaw the termination of the Project myself. I will grant you access to the files, if it will ease your concerns.”

“I’m not concerned,” Ellen said, so ridiculously calm. Sam tried not to smile. _Man, I love her._ “Although, I would appreciate access to those files. It’s really Mister Crowley I’m concerned about.”

“This Mister Crowley has proven his loyalties to us,” Naomi said. “At least in that he has proven he acts in his own best interest, and he firmly believes his best interest is acting as our ally.”

“How logical of him,” Ellen said, and it wasn’t sarcasm.

Naomi smiled a smile not unlike Zachariah’s. “Indeed.” Her smile fell. “As it stands, Lilith is not a major threat to us, and rather a threat to the safety of your officers. Crowley believes he is doing us a grand favor, and we will let him go on believing that. At least his involvement may help protect your officers and allow our Seals to be returned that much quicker.”

“So I shouldn’t worry about the imminent destruction of the galaxy,” Ellen clarified.

Naomi blinked robotically. “There is no reason to.”

“Great,” Ellen said, exhaling deeply. “Well, thank you for your time, and for agreeing to meet with me. We should get your Seals back in no time.”

Naomi nodded curtly. “Of course.”

The Seraph’s image cut out, replaced onscreen by an expanse of freckled stars. A collective sigh of relief rolled across the bridge.

“That was _so_ tedious,” Kevin observed from the back.

“Mister, you didn’t have to go through the turmoil to even get us to this point,” Ellen chided. Kevin let out a sheepish _eep_ and abstained from offering any further insights.

“Where to, sir?” Dean asked, already pulling up a trajectory map to share with Sam’s screen.

“Rendezvous point,” Ellen said. “We’re dropping off the Seal with Zachariah, and then first thing in the morning we’re jumping several parsecs to a space station.”

“Shore leave?” Dean asked hopefully.

“Nope,” Ellen sighed, sounding positively bummed. “We have work to do.”

* * *

That night — night being relative, as it was always night in the dead of space — Sam swung by the chapel. He wasn’t aligned, so to speak, but he’d always felt something, like a ringing deep inside him, for some form of faith, when on sacred ground.

The _Orion’s_ chapel was somewhat small, with plain pews and humble dressings, adaptable for nearly all variances of organized faith. Or in Sam’s case, unorganized. It reminded him of the _Impala,_ in a way — some kind of homeyness. In that sense, the chapel was one of the few places Sam could really feel Mom.

Sam had spoken to her quite a bit lately. After Jessica died, after he came back to Starfleet, it was his way of justifying that choice. _You did this for a reason, Mom. And I need something like that right now._ And then after Dad. _I don’t blame him for this anymore. I was hoping you could tell him._ And then after Gehenna. _It’s not Starfleet, Mom, it’s me, I’m the constant, I’m the reason our family is just—_ and so on and so forth.

It was every few nights now, since he was less of a mess, since Dean was okay. And his talks weren’t so sad all the time, either. Tonight he sat at the far edge of a center pew and bowed his head and laughed.

“Dear Mom. Today a smoking hot Klingon girl called me sexy and Dean threw up everywhere.”

Sam tried to picture his mom, and like always, he struggled. He could visualize photographs, but they didn’t really help. He tried to force into his mind every sparkling golden strand of her hair, every soft crinkle of skin at the corner of her eyes. The glint of light on her teeth. The shape of her hands — what it would feel like to wrap his little hand around her giant adult finger, a tiny boy toddling behind his mother. Sam gripped his knees.

“The, uh, Seraph, Castiel, I think you’d like him, actually,” Sam said. “I don’t mind him. Dean, for some reason, can’t stand him, which is hilarious, really, because— you should see them together. They _bicker_. It’s… you should see a Seraph bicker. It’s very pathetic. And Dean, he’s… well, he’s Dean.”

Sam swallowed.

“I’m really glad Castiel is here,” he forced out. “I thought I could protect Dean. He did it for me all these years and it was my turn, right? But I get hurt too, and I’m just…”

Klingon blood in his teeth. Entrails slipping through his fingers. Turning the corner and finding some poor bastard flayed to high heaven. Realizing the poor bastard was his brother.

“I’m no good at this,” Sam said. “And Dean knows, and he’s mad, but he doesn’t want to take it out on me. I think that’s why he’s so mean to Castiel instead, because he doesn’t feel anything. So maybe that’s a good thing. But I still feel so bad.”

What would his mother say to him in this situation? Would she agree? Would she refute him? Would he get in trouble for failing his brother or would… would she try to convince him it wasn’t his fault? And would that even help?

All Sam could see was a photograph, his mom hugging a chubby, bowl-cut wearing Dean, when Sam himself was nothing but a misshapen clump of cells inside her womb.

“Goodnight, Mom.” This would be enough for now. “Love you.”

On his way back to his quarters, Sam was disrupted from his storm of memories when he noticed Dean and Castiel at the far end of the hallway, their backs to him, walking side by side.

Dean was flailing his arms, which meant he was in the middle of complaining, and Castiel was stiff as a rod. They stopped at Dean’s room, but the conversation carried on. Dean pointed fingers and rolled his eyes and moved his head around so fast it might fly off his neck. Castiel simply observed. Finally, Sam read the Seraph’s lips — _goodnight_ — and Dean replied in kind — ‘ _night_ — and the two nodded to each other calmly, almost gentlemanly, as Dean slipped into his room. Castiel then walked away.

And it was so ridiculous. And Sam didn’t laugh, because he was too tired, but he did sleep soundly that night, free of any nightmares of Jessica or Mom or Dad or Dean. Because even if everything sucked, Dean had lied today. He loved making new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter summary:  
> The worst part of being human is probably that need to “talk about it”.
> 
> Ayyyy I really wasn't expecting to be able to get this up on schedule so I am very proud! College is awesome but a lot of work; my school is on a super condensed schedule and WOWwIE I knew it would be fast but it is, like. Fast. Although one of my classes is literally just called "Ghost Stories", and it's the best thing I've ever been in.
> 
> Side note: today, September 8th, is the anniversary of Star Trek's first episode airing! And the fact that season 15 continues a month from today is horrifying. Syzygy!
> 
> I am having so much fun working on this and can't wait to write more. Hopefully it'll be up in two-three weeks like always! Thank you all for reading this. Feel free to leave a comment/kudo and I hope y'all have a great day.


	7. All Our Yesterdays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The worst part about being human is probably that need to "talk about it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! Torture/noncon briefly rears its ugly head in the first vignette. I have a weak stomach so it's not super explicit, but I did put the graphic depictions of violence warning tag on this story on purpose. There is also lots of fluff in this chapter to balance out the angst.
> 
> And, as always, you may find keeping track of Stardates to be helpful.

**Stardate Unknown** — _???_

ng to die here. It’s the only thing he knows is real.

It’s the pain that pulls him back, lights up the world like a fucking meteor. When his eyes open — they closed? — the pain is so violent he can almost hear it, crackling like kindling, the splitting skin and broken bones and the pinching, this incessant _pinching—_

How many days has it been? _Days? What makes you think that?_ He doesn’t sleep; he can't sleep, not when he’s fastened to a hard slab and left to bleed, not when his naked limbs are little more than frozen meat now, not when his blood feels crystallized inside his veins with whatever they gave him. Everything jolting, rigid, awake. No, not “awake.” Simply “not asleep.”

Darkness comes and goes, but it isn’t sleep. It’s something forced, as if they pull his mind out from directly inside him, and he doesn’t sleep, he just _stops_. There must be a plug somewhere they yank without any warning. Red alert. Emergency shutdown. System failure.

In case of compromise, all standard Starfleet vessels are equipped with a self-destruct button. He heard that somewhere. He doesn’t remember what it means. Or why it comes to him now. For all he knows, _they_ told him that.

And here they are now. They are always here when his eyes open.

He can’t tell if he’s still bleeding or if the hot tracks down his temples are tears. Sometimes when his eyes open many of the wounds are gone, like they reconstruct him in the darkness, just to cleave him apart again when the lights come back up. Never so much to make the pain ease. _Snap. Crackle. Pop._ Just enough to drag it out.

The Face is here now, with their smiling sunken eyes, their thin lips pulled back over stained teeth, every pore of their half-decayed skin defined in his vision. The Face: the only one of their faces he can _see_ , beneath the blotted lights and flashes of knives and faceless figures looming, holding, prying, peering, touching touching touching.

He looks away but it hurts, it fucking _aches_ to direct his eyes anywhere but into the eyes of The Face, who is laughing at him because they can see it, the pain, and it’s exactly what they want from him. And so he looks at The Face because there is nowhere else to look and inside he feels something, like his essence, if he still has any, just wasting away, decaying. Sometimes he wonders — not for long, wondering is not easy — if his eyes have been broken as well. They seem to leave his eyes alone, but he wonders — his memory has been — sometimes he thinks—

Pinch. Time probably passes. The Face’s fingers roam about while the needle gets to work. And when it does work, it’s something new this time, some drug that spins the room around him until it blurs like a Bussard ramscoop. He has no idea what a “Bussard ramscoop” is, but the word pops into his head, and he clings to it, even though it’s probably utter nonsense, because he’s spinning so fast and there’s nothing else to hold onto and clear thoughts come so infrequently now that when you think them you just have to _grab._

The blades carve into him slowly, descending in complete synchronization. Figure skating. There are three today. Maybe more. He can’t tell because he thinks his eyes are inside out, like watching himself be dissected through the reflection of a spoon.

The Face puts their tongue on his cheek. Drags their hot breath, mouth, teeth through his hair and over his skin. He just holds on holds on holds on. His stomach — which, he remembers now, was dangling outside his abdomen last time his eyes were open — jostles about inside him with the rotation of the room. He’d be sick but they won’t let him get sick. And while he’s spinning, dizzy, dizzy, dizzy, the knives complete their square, and — and a thick sheet of skin is peeled off — he’s screaming—

He doesn’t know how many times they do this, how many peeled sheets of skin it takes to get to his core. Reminds him of a bad joke — _a one, a two, a three, crunch!_ However long it takes, The Face remains in the center of his vision, their hands wandering, their curdled breath polluting his air supply, until — not a crunch, but a squish, a grisly, excruciating, paralyzing squish — there is no more skin to peel and they’ve moved on, they’ve moved _in,_ and it’s too much. It’s always too much.

He’s goi

*** * ***

**Stardate 10973** — _The Third Seal_

The space station was on the small side, but nevertheless teeming with life. Dean loved these things; they reminded him of his childhood, when Dad would dump him and Sammy off at one and they could spend a few days just running about like vagabonds, panhandling credits and artifacts off the well-to-do and learning street — well, _space_ — smarts from the poor.

The actual mission was brief and easy, almost disappointingly so. Dean was so swept away by the hallways’ streams of bustling rainbow nostalgia, he forgot they were even there for a Seal until Ellen was shoving it into his arms and the walls of the space station were rippling back into the shape of the _Orion’s_ transporter room.

But even if the trip was quick, it had been packed with excitement, enough to make Dean realize just how starved he’d been for good clean fun lately.

Mystery seemed to lurk in every storage compartment — space stations had always made Dean feel like he was on some kind of top secret treasure hunt. A troupe of thespians were performing in a lounge, wearing egg-shaped pins on their pastel lapels and ridiculous side ponytails, playing six-stringed circular harps. Travelling merchants lined the counters of the cafes, desperate to interest the Starfleet officers in their dazzlingly colorful odds and ends — it took Dean thirty minutes of the two hour mission to convince Charlie not to purchase a tribble from one in a green coat.

“I would spay it,” she protested glumly.

“No,” Dean repeated.

Charlie kissed the tribble’s head (body? butt? whatever) and reluctantly passed it off to Castiel, who had been functioning as Dean’s second shadow. The tribble’s purring grew noticeably louder in Castiel’s palms. He stiffened, staring at the creature like it was going to bite him.

“Listen to that purr,” the salesman crooned. “It likes you!”

“Indeed,” Castiel said.

Charlie spun on Dean. “Okay, if it likes _him_ , we _have_ to get it.”

“ _No._ Cas, put that damn thing down!”

“My name is Castiel,” the Seraph corrected. Dean swiped the tribble away before he even finished his sentence. The tribble squeaked in protest and Dean held it at eye-level.

“You don’t fool me,” he sneered.

The tribble wilted, and so did Charlie, and so did the salesman.

Castiel, however, approved of Dean’s prevention of a tribble infestation. As sweet and endearing as they were, the things were born pregnant, and the more they ate, the more they’d procreate. Dean loved a fuzzy ball of love as much as the next human being, but he didn’t trust anything inherently against birth control.

Speaking of birth control, it was just about time for Dean’s traditional tryst with the Random Alien of the Week — and there were plenty of contenders to go around in the halls of the space station. An emerald-skinned Orion chick with legs for miles. A Romulan lady who was way too old for him and therefore all the more exciting. An Andorian girl who literally approached Dean asking how flexible he was. There was even an Edo man with these huge blue eyes — and Dean didn’t… at least, not usually… but he’d heard about the _extremity_ of the Edo, and the guy kept throwing these looks at him, and he was really starting to consider it.

It was safe to say the possibilities of a fantastic night were limitless. But noooo, they had a Seal to retrieve, so Dean didn’t have a single moment to sidle up to one of the ladies (or gent) and buy them an ale.

In retrospect, attempting to court had been a little awkward with Castiel standing directly behind him the entire time, anyway.

And it was also pretty awkward when the Andorian girl asked Castiel how flexible _he_ was, too. And when Castiel described in agonizingly intimate detail just how flexible he was because “she asked and Seraphim do not lie.” And when Dean realized Ketch saw the whole thing and had the audacity to look jealous.

So they saved a Seal and Dean got cockblocked but Castiel didn’t read his mind and nobody got hurt. No random Hellhounds, no zealous Klingons, no scary rumors, no haunting flashbacks. Just the liquid diet. So, overall, a win, even if all those tens in the space station cafe saw Dean eating baby food banana puree through a straw.

* * *

**Stardate 10974** — _The Fourth and the Fifth Seal_

Two in one day — some Elasian king was apparently pretty greedy when Bela Talbot was dealing out her spoils and took two Seals for himself. Unfortunately for him, his bargaining skills were shit, and Ellen and the crew revoked his prize without any trouble. It was almost as quick as the space station mission, and much like that last milk run, there wasn’t even violence involved this time.

Although, all previous violent incidents on these Seal missions had been due to imposters or Dean plain fucking up.

Dean didn’t fuck up this time and it was _definitely_ not because Castiel was staring at him uninterrupted from beam-down to beam-up. It was because his new diet did not meet his caloric needs and he simply lacked the energy required to be a nuisance.

Dean took this complaint to Sick Bay, but instead of letting him eat real food, Bobby prescribed Dean protein shakes, which are disgusting.

“I think they’re delicious,” Sam said.

But then Castiel said, “I disagree.”

And since Seraphim don’t have feelings, and therefore cannot form subjective opinions about the taste of food, Dean took Castiel’s statement to Bobby as a factual counterpoint.

Bobby allowed Dean some chicken nuggets.

After dinner, Sam pulled Dean away from the group, just barely convincing Castiel to leave them be.

“I had another nightmare,” Sam said, and told Dean about visions of a massive explosion, of the _Orion_ crashing into the Earth, of Dean floating naked through space and burning from the inside out until quasars of white light shot out from his eye sockets.

“Damn,” Dean said. “Maybe you should drink tea before bed.”

“I do drink tea before bed.”

“Then maybe you should stop drinking tea before bed.”

That night Dean slept like a baby. Sam dreamt about needles and rooms that could not stop spinning.

* * *

**Stardate 10975** — _The Sixth Seal_

Same old, same old.

Wake up.

Beam down to Planet X. Avoid contact with inhabitants. Infiltrate mysterious dark facility.

Turn around to ask Sam a question and get a faceful of Cas’s face. Angrily remind him of _personal space_. Stomp away. In the process, whack shin directly into the corner of a low table. Allow Cas to “heal” it because _whatever it was just gonna bruise anyway._

Yell at Jo for sneaking away on a mission again, but don’t stay mad at her for too long, because she’s just a dumb kid and she’s happy to be here.

Grab Seal. Beam up. Return the ugly box to Zachariah.

Pilot the ship. Narrowly avoid freak meteor shower. Yell at younger brother about monitoring the blind spot but “professionally” because he’s technically a paid Starfleet officer, too.

Dinner break. Eat more chicken nuggets.

Play a well-matched game of three-dimensional chess with Charlie. Let Cas have a turn instead and get brutally slaughtered. Punch Ketch when he laughs.

Bid Sam sweet dreams.

Go to bed.

Sleep.

Repeat.

* * *

**Stardate 10976** — _The Seventh Seal_

Quitting was not in Castiel’s nature. This was a fact.

Castiel did not deliberately give up — “throw in the towel," as Dean would say — on his list of strange human attributes that he was archiving for future research. It ceased to grow, its annotations slowly petering out, but not because Castiel was abandoning it. He was merely sidetracked by Dean Winchester’s intense demand for attention.

Therefore, the overwhelming surge of information from their partnership caused Castiel to neglect additional data.

That was an untruth.

Every single controversial action Dean Winchester took went _entirely_ noted by Castiel, filed away and documented, simply because (Castiel rationalized) the man was so _incredibly_ annoying that he was causing his brainwaves to malfunction.

But that was an untruth as well. He was not “annoying”; not like Castiel initially thought. He was simply… complex. It was naive to label complexities annoying. _Fascination over frustration_. It was not so difficult anymore.

Therefore, the list wasn’t gone, and it wasn’t being ignored. It had just been renamed. Rather than the Perplexities of Mankind, it had become the Perplexities of Dean Winchester. Furthermore, upon reflection over his time at the Academy and on the _Orion,_ Castiel hypothesized that even a study of an extreme case of Humanity — this ex-redshirt Winchester — would serve as a rather helpful subject to compare all further case studies to.

So it was acceptable to focus on this singular human being, for the time being, and shut out all others from his perception. It was both essential to performing his sanctioned duty and beneficial to the future of science. Or so Castiel told himself, for the nineteenth time in five days, as he watched Dean Winchester beg him for another round of what the humans called “arm wrestling.”

“You have lost three times in a row,” Castiel observed.

They were sitting on opposite sides of a plateaued boulder in a small cave, taking a brief break from their long trek towards the seventh Seal, the rest of the landing party milling about outside. Dean, facing the cave entrance, was illuminated by a bright swatch of light. He licked his weirdly-shaped lips, shook his head, and furrowed his brow — this was the face he made when preserving his dignity. He pushed up his sleeve, even though it was already bunched up over his bicep after having pushed it up several minutes ago.

“Yeah, but I haven’t gone down yet without a fight,” Dean insisted, positioning his elbow on the stone. “It’s not about brute force, Cas. It’s about endurance. Stamina.”

“My name is Castiel,” Castiel reminded him, taking Dean’s outstretched hand. He watched the human’s weird lips begin the countdown and, on “three,” promptly pinned Dean’s arm to the stone.

“Ah,” Dean squeaked. “Ow.”

Castiel retracted his hand, wet with the sweat from Dean’s palm, a rather unsettling sensation. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Dean said, cradling his arm. He squinted his angry eyes at Castiel. “So you were just saving up for a big reveal the whole time?”

Something about the human’s face — the quirk of his eyebrow or the twist of his weird lips — sparked in Castiel the amusement Zachariah always reported experiencing. Suddenly, Castiel found himself fighting the impulse to smile.

“Endurance, Dean,” he said. “Stamina.”

Dean’s face reddened, but not in an angry way, which was new. It was so new that Castiel, completely focused on observing this fascinating reaction for his list of perplexities, didn’t even notice Captain Harvelle approach him from behind.

“Break time’s over, boys,” Harvelle said. Both officers startled, although Castiel thought he was slightly better at masking his surprise. “Ketch thinks he finally mapped out a decent path.”

“I still don’t trust Ketch’s path,” Lieutenant Bradbury warned from somewhere behind Harvelle.

Castiel got to his feet, brushing the dirt off his pants. His form cast a long shadow into the cave, darkening Dean as he, too, stood.

“We’re just gonna take the risk,” Harvelle said with a half smile.

“Well, we got a Seraph backing us up,” Dean said. Even in Castiel’s shadow, the helmsman’s face seemed rather well-lit. “So I don’t think we got much to worry about.”

Castiel was not a computer, but still, this shorted a circuit. “...My condolences?”

“That was a compliment,” Harvelle whispered with a nudge of her elbow.

“Oh. …Thank you.”

Dean grinned. His teeth were square and satisfying.

* * *

**Stardate 10977** — _Now_

“I’m not going to the fucking church group.”

Sam sighed through his nose. Again. Dean was beginning to think he was clearing a clogged nostril.

“It’s not a church group,” Sam said, and even though he was still talking, his eyes were flat and Dean knew he’d already won. “It’s… another group vigil. Not just for Rufus, you know, for…” He trailed off, because saying it was “for Dean” would be weird. But it was for Dean too, and he knew it.

This was the third group grief session Ellen (or Bobby or Jody — Dean didn’t really know who was spearheading these) had mandated since his _mysterious displacement_. The first happened before he woke up, so he hadn’t been forced to attend. He _had_ attended the second one, and it was absolute torture. It was supposed to make people feel better, become better at dealing with the violent loss of Rufus and the stress of maintaining peace with the Klingons during the whole rescue spiel and… and everything else, to varying degrees. Dean’s degree of everything else was rather high.

He hadn’t cried in that meeting like the others. Instead he’d sat and stared and forgotten to breathe and felt the tide of the universe shifting around him, screaming that he wasn’t supposed to be there, a yanking dread that wasn’t dissimilar to the echoing _You won’t be long_ that pursued him weeks later. He wasn’t interested in letting his wrongness find a voice again. He could live with feeling a little sad during his daily tasks, his gripes with Cas, his laughs with Charlie. As long as he didn’t give the wrongness the power of acknowledgement, he could live with himself.

“We…” Sam’s lips flopped about as he searched for words. “The crew needs to heal. _”_

“You said so yourself, I _did_ heal.” Dean swung his arms about for emphasis. “Shoulder doesn’t even sting anymore.”

“Ellen said this counseling is mandatory.”

“Yeah, but if anybody on this ship gets a pass, it’s me.”

Despite his flat eyes, Sam still refused to admit to his defeat, and took a deep breath.

“I’m leading the talk today,” he admitted, his smile twitching weakly with that stupid nervous hope.

“No, Sam,” Dean repeated, as nicely as he could, which wasn’t quite _nice_ but at least wasn’t _mean_. “I’m sorry.”

Sam nodded like his advertising idea had been shot down in a PR conference. “Okay. You know what’s best for you.”

Dean actually didn’t, which is why he went to his quarters and sat on his bed and stared at his gold? green? tunic sleeves and allowed the painted eyes of John Winchester to glare down his back. As the minutes passed, as his shirt sleeves shifted from yellow to green and back again, he tried to imagine what Sam was saying to the crew right now. Probably something all heartfelt and stupid. He was probably crying. The big baby.

* * *

The humans seemed to find Sam Winchester a moving speaker, but he unsettled Castiel. He stammered, and he cried. And he breathed very quickly through his mouth.

“We don’t have to pretend that nothing is different, because everything is,” Lieutenant Winchester was saying from the podium. He had been speaking for ten minutes already, having opened with a mindfulness exercise and a tearful tribute to Commander Turner. He now seemed to be transitioning into his next point. “I hate that this loss, this huge loss, is what reminds us that we’re a family here, that it’s not just a job. And it took me so long to realize that, you know? That what we do is at least as important as who we do it with…”

There were nearly four hundred officers gathered in the gymnasium, stacked in the bleachers and filling the temporary seats arranged in the center of the room. Castiel stood in the back corner, partially obscured by the bleachers, positioned at the door. Captain Harvelle had told him to act as a sentinel, but he wasn’t guarding anything, and taking into account the “look” she gave him he deduced that Captain Harvelle actually meant he was free to leave if he found it appropriate.

_There are “looks,”_ Dean had told him over breakfast, after Castiel had struggled — more so than usual — to pick up on the nuances of human communication. _You gotta get with the program, learn what they mean. It’s basically just a language, dude. You understand language?_ Castiel knew well over a hundred, but unfortunately, that of unspoken human “looks” was not one of them. Although, according to Dean, Castiel _was_ proficient in the language of sarcasm.

_Oh, sarcasm?_ Castiel had asked. Apparently that was humorous. Dean had thrown his head back, his huge eyes crinkling into slits, his nostrils flaring, all of his square teeth on display and his entire inner throat angled to maximum visibility. And he’d _cackled_ — that gruff, angry, complex voice transforming into something light, vibrant, simple: Castiel thought of a soft tribble in his palms. And it wasn’t music, but it had a melody to it, something that felt sacred like the Hymns of Elysium, and Castiel had turned away because sacred things — like the Seals, like their Grace, like the Hymns — these were not meant to be experienced by otherworlders, and Castiel felt hot inside to see that sanctity generated by one of them. Hot with repulsion, or embarrassment, or something else, he didn’t know. He wasn’t supposed to know.

“Dean isn’t here today,” Lieutenant Winchester continued. “I had two speeches prepared, one in case he showed up, one in case he didn’t. For some reason I practiced the second one more.”

A small laugh rippled through the room, which was fascinating for several reasons. One: many of the attendees were still crying, so the laughter sounded sad, which was another paradox Castiel hadn’t encountered yet. Two: not a single laugh rang bells of bliss in Castiel’s ears like Dean’s had.

“I thank you all — I know it’s the hundredth time — but I thank you all for helping him,” Lieutenant Winchester said. He paused for a shaky breath. “But I know it takes a toll on you. I know it does. And what I think I need to say today, is that it seems we’re always holding back what we feel so that — so that the person we’re sitting next to doesn’t have to feel that too. But we’re all waiting, just waiting for someone else to say that they’re sad. Because we’re all sad.”

Castiel was listening, but he found it difficult to focus. As he scanned over the human faces in the gymnasium — Doctor Singer and Nurse Mills pale and solemn, Captain Harvelle comforting her daughter, Lt. Commander Ketch wringing his hands — Castiel realized that he was struggling to narrow in on any single piece of data. All the emotions: so many minds he’d have to violate with his own to actually understand.

Sam Winchester spoke of gratitude and grief and guilt. Castiel remembered the way Sam, covered in Klingon blood at the interrogation table, had cursed so profanely at him when they first met. How Castiel, at the time, was just waiting for the moment Captain Harvelle would dismiss him to Sick Bay so he could examine the torture victim at the center of it all.

As Sam Winchester began to speak of family, Castiel left the room.

* * *

Dean recognized Castiel’s knock.

It was simply that: _knock._

Sighing, Dean pressed the button that opened the door — the image of Castiel knocking once and then standing in the barren hallway with his arms stiff at his sides was just plain sad. He had almost been expecting him, anyway. If Ellen herself wasn’t coming to drag him to counseling, she would send Bobby or the Seraph to do the job.

“I’m not going,” Dean said, his back turned, fully aware that his attempt to be dramatic was not in the least subtle.

“I know,” Castiel said, his approaching footsteps and click of the door indicating he had entered the room. “Neither am I.”

Dean turned. Castiel was gazing straight at Dean, not bothering to look around at the room’s decor, even though it was the first time he’d ever been in Dean’s private quarters. It was respectful, in a way. But also weird. But the kind of weird that didn’t bother Dean so much anymore because he was getting used to it.

“Too emo for you?” Dean sat on the bed, propping his elbows on his knees.

Castiel gave a half-nod. “I attempted to attend. It was overwhelming.”

“You’re telling me.”

“I am,” Castiel said. Dean gave him a _look_ and Castiel's eyebrows shot up — one of the few facial expressions he was beginning to develop. “I see. A figure of speech.”

Dean shook his head, but couldn’t help but smile. “Sit, dude.”

Castiel was still eight feet away, dutifully heeding Dean’s _personal space_ mandate. He finally drew closer and lowered himself into the chair by the bed. Dean recognized something that he’d started noticing over the past few days — the longer you got Castiel talking in a one-on-one conversation, the looser his mannequin body became.

“Your brother was speaking,” Castiel continued. “I couldn’t help but wonder why you were absent.”

“I didn’t want to go.”

“Why not?”

Dean studied Castiel and Castiel studied Dean. If anybody else asked him that, he’d consider those fighting words, because as much as he loved his crewmates, they were so… _oppressive_ with how they thought he should be coping with things. Sam prompting Ellen to assign Castiel as his handler was a direct testament to that.

But Castiel wasn’t trying to change the way Dean was coping; he was trying to understand it. He asked “why not” because he didn’t know. And, for some weird, scientific, creepy reason, Castiel was genuinely interested in the answer. Or maybe the reason was compassionate — which didn’t make sense, but Castiel was surprising Dean every day. It was so hard to tell what he was thinking. Dean glanced at Castiel's hands.

“You wouldn’t rather just read my mind?” Dean checked.

“No. Do you want me to?”

“No.” It was great news, but still: a week ago, Castiel had been raring to finger Dean’s hippocampus. “Why not?”

Castiel cocked his head. “I asked you first.”

Before Dean knew it, he was smiling again. “You’re getting funny, man. That’s dangerous. Think I’m rubbing off on you.”

“I hope not,” Castiel quipped.

Dean laughed, and caved.

“I didn’t want to go because I don’t like to feel bad,” Dean said, trying to focus on Castiel's ridiculously interested expression instead of the tightness in his throat. The first sentence had come out easy, but Dean realized he was about to wade into the territory that staying in his room was meant to help avoid. “They say you have to feel bad to feel good again, work through your trauma or some shit, but if I start going down I just. Keep going down. Okay, this is actually— harder to talk about than I— you probably don’t get it anyway.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “I never will if that’s all you tell me.”

It reminded Dean of his Academy-era relationships: girlfriends begging him to be more open with them while Dean shriveled at the idea of commitment and vulnerability. But, again, Castiel was just _curious_. And… and opportunities to talk about your feelings with somebody who didn’t _care_ — at least, not in the sentimental sense — were few and far between.

“Lots of humans like to talk about how they feel bad, and that makes them feel better,” Dean said, attempting to sound clinical. “I don’t work that way, which sucks, ‘cause it’s not like I _want_ to feel bad.”

“Emotions cannot be controlled?” Castiel asked.

“Um, not, uh… not really. But you can control whether or not you let them control you. Mostly.”

“And avoiding confrontation is your form of control?”

“You’re quick, Cas.”

“Castiel.”

“Cas.”

It could have been an effect of the lighting, but Dean swore a smile was tugging at the Seraph's mouth.

Cas's wide blue eyes finally shifted away from Dean’s to study his room, wandering dispassionately until eventually settling on the framed portrait. “Is that your father?”

The idea of Castiel and John Winchester locking eyes — even if one was just a painting, and dead anyway — was embarrassing. “Yeah.”

Cas nodded once. “And your mother?”

“Here, I, uh—” For some reason, Dean was compelled to reach to his bed stand and rummage through a drawer. “This is her.”

He pulled out the photo and gave it to Cas, who held the image like a fragile document. Mom was pregnant with Sammy in that picture, but you couldn’t tell unless you knew what date it was taken, because she was hugging Dean against her bump. He had just turned four and his hair, chopped in a straight line above his eyebrows, was still the kind of blonde that blinded people in sunlight. Now with his hair all silty, Dean more closely resembled his dad, but at age four he could’ve been his mom’s little clone.

“Y’know, I used to blame the Seraphim for her death,” Dean blurted. Cas glanced up.

“Anael was her colleague,” Cas said, nodding. His unsettling eyes panned back to Mom, which Dean took as a signal that he didn’t need to elaborate. He liked that about Cas. He couldn’t always connect all the dots, but when he did, they were the dots that really mattered.

But even though Dean didn’t need to elaborate, he started talking anyway. Not about his mom’s death, how in the middle of her extended maternity leave, she was murdered by Azazel just because her research found something he didn’t like. He didn’t talk about how Anael could have saved his mom but instead chose to save her research. Cas connected those dots himself and Dean didn’t need to tell him that.

But he did tell Cas about how his dad _snapped_ , taking back the _Impala_ for himself and dragging Sammy and Dean across the entire alpha and beta quadrants for eight years on a psychotic hunt for his wife’s killer. He told Cas about space stations and treasure hunts and panhandling, about growing up in outer space with only an outdated research craft to call home, about watching out for a little brother who longed for a different life. He told Cas about the amulet hanging around his neck.

He told Cas about his Dad _finally_ throwing them into the Academy, about how excited Dean had been to earn his own red shirt, about how Sammy flourished around other kids his age, _smart_ kids. How it _still_ wasn’t the life his brother wanted and, just as he got his official mission-worthy navigator’s license, he dropped out. For Jessica. And how that was the first time Dean had ever seen Sammy truly happy. And how Jess and Sammy had a year together until she died in a training exercise that she shouldn’t even have been recruited for and Sam came back to Starfleet because he had nowhere else to go.

Dean told Cas how, for a little bit, life was mostly okay again. But then Dad finally caught up to Azazel, and his mission went sideways, and he died. And how, even after that, life was still mostly okay for a little bit longer. And then. But Cas knew the rest.

When he finished talking, Cas was still holding the photo. He blinked and handed it back to Dean.

“I read your file,” Cas said.

Simple. Blunt. Classic. Dean felt a little stupid. “So you knew all that.”

“Well, the dates and facts.” Cas’s lips almost smiled. “But it’s different to hear you recount it.”

“Yeah, and I’ll bet it’s different to see it when reading my mind, too.”

Dean had meant that light-heartedly, but it was laced with such bitterness, even Cas noticed. The Seraph’s brow furrowed, and he looked at his hands, palm-down on his thighs.

“In your mind, I didn’t study memories I wasn’t ordered to,” Cas said in a troubled tone. “Reading your mind was… itchy. I didn’t like it.”

“ _Itchy?_ ” Dean laughed.

“You disagree?”

“It’s just a funny way of putting it.”

Cas nearly betrayed another smile. “I apologize for that experience.”

“Right back at ya.” Dean put his mom’s photo in his bedside drawer, then swung his legs up on the bed, letting their swivel throw his body back against the mattress. “What’s your opinion on Romulan Ale?”

“My opinion is that the law should be obeyed.”

“Oh.” Dean’s arm had reached down for the safe beneath his bed, but he now let it fall limp as if he had intended on just swinging it off the mattress all along. “I mean, of course.”

Dean let silence take over for a moment, allowing himself to relax on the bed, while Cas allowed himself to relax in the chair. It was strange, Dean thought. Cas was the first person he’d let in his room since Sammy or a Random Alien of the Week, and he hadn’t even stopped to think about it. Cas knocked once and Dean let him in.

It felt different, too. Sammy brought tension. They had baggage and they unpacked and re-packed it so often neither of them could tell whose shit was whose anymore. The Random Aliens of the Week were about forgetting the “then” and the “when” and enjoying the “now.” And Cas made Dean forget a “then,” and it wasn’t like the two of them didn’t have their baggage, and Dean still found him so creepy, but… something about this — how even though all that happened, they were in Dean’s quarters together out of their own free will, and Dean had _talked about himself_ — felt undeniably pure.

Cas broke the silence.

“You were wrong.”

“Um.” Dean ran through a mental list of all his life’s mistakes and recognized nothing of immediate significance. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“When you said red is your color.”

“What—?” It took a moment of blank staring, but Dean finally recalled that time last week in the transporter room: standing shirtless and bloody with Ketch beside him, begging Ellen one last time to be reassigned. He forgot Cas had even been there. Why was he bringing this up now? “Dude, I was just— I missed being a security officer, and a red uniform looks good on me.” He shot upright, accusatory. “You think it doesn’t?”

Cas shook his head and pointed to Dean’s chest. “No. But green does offer you greater complement.”

_Green_. Fascinating. “Starfleet says these are gold.”

“Starfleet is wrong.”

That settled it: if Cas said the gold tunics were green, the gold tunics were green. “Well, thanks for the flattery.”

“It was merely an observation.”

“A flattering observation.”

Cas folded his hands in his lap and turned up his nose. “Any flattery is a product of your interpretation.”

Dean giggled. He fucking _giggled_. This entire month he’d known Castiel, Dean found the Seraph a cold-hearted and soulless ass. Now he was giggling at him because — this was so ridiculous — what if Cas’s dry sarcasm had been an act the whole damn time? Even Zachariah had insulted him for lacking a sense of humor. Dean had suspected Castiel was a double agent, some harbinger of doom, but maybe he was just trying to hide that he was kind of human.

“So, what about you?” Dean prompted. “What’s your lore?”

Castiel let out a quick huff of air. “Compared to yours, rather unexciting.”

“Bull. Y’all live for hundreds of years and invented a crazy complex religion, you’ve gotta have some juicy deets in there.”

“My deets are juiceless.”

Dean sighed. “Look, you read my damn mind. It’d be nice to at least know a little bit about you.”

He turned his head to look at Cas with what he hoped were imploring eyes. Cas simply stared back like an automaton.

“With all due respect, sir, you’re a bitch,” Dean grumbled.

Cas blinked slowly, unoffended. “I was chosen to enroll in Starfleet Academy because our elders believed I was best suited.”

“You didn’t choose this life?”

“No. I was sent for a purpose,” Cas said in a totally not creepy way. “Naomi and my superiors believed I had the correct disposition to interact with humans. I was a very good soldier, considered incorruptible.” At Dean’s confused reaction, he elaborated. “I have proven devout. And level-headed. Zachariah finds my status illogical; he believes he should have been chosen. But he, like many in his regiment, has great pride.”

“But pride’s an emotion.”

“Yes, for you,” Cas said. That was such a confusing statement Dean didn’t even know how to process it.

“So you’re a soldier turned scientist? And on top of it all, a church kid?”

“To put it crudely. As I said, unexciting. There is not much about me you do not already know.”

Dean knew that couldn’t be further from the truth, but he decided against pressing too hard for more backstory today. “Still think that taboo battle royale prophecy of yours is creepy as shit.”

Cas was quiet for a moment. “Creepy?”

“Hmm?” Dean glanced back at the science officer. His sharp eyebrows were once again drawn down in thought.

“You have used the adjective ‘creepy’ many times,” Cas said. “What does it mean?”

Dean scoffed. “Uh, depends, I guess. Like, your religion is creepy ‘cause it’s got this whole apocalyptic prophecy that you’re not allowed to know about. Klingons are creepy ‘cause they smell bad and they lie all the time. Even tribbles are creepy ‘cause all they do is crawl around and get pregnant.”

Cas cocked his head, his vividly blue eyes locked onto Dean’s. “If I described working with you… as ‘creepy’...” he paused as if expecting Dean to lash out. “Would I be using the term appropriately?”

Dean would admit that he was a little offended. He would also admit he probably deserved it after all the times he’d insulted Cas to his face. “If you think I’m creepy, then yes.”

“In that case, you are, as you say, ‘creepy as shit.’”

And this time, when Dean laughed, Cas laughed too.

* * *

**Stardate Unknown** — _???_

Hundreds surround the pyre, their white robes lit by the flames. The good little soldier can’t find his friends’ faces in the circle. _No — we are brothers, not friends_. Uriel, Anael, Ezekiel believe this. Why can’t the good little soldier?

The flames rise. Crackle. Sing. Silver-blue Grace escapes in spurts and coughs. The Seals in the wall beyond the circle pulse. Their ringing is sweet. The smoke of burning Grace is rotten.

_Brothers, not friends_. Gabriel did not tell this to the little soldiers. He was not the one who helped them believe it. He did not believe it and neither does the good little soldier. But the good little soldier wishes he could. He does not want to escape in spurts and coughs. He would like to find his friends’ — his _brothers’_ faces and follow the Word as he was made to do. He would like to please his Father. He is not a quitter.

He did not mean for this to happen. Still, he will not cry.

“Watch that one, Naomi,” Michael warns. He can see the entire circle and the fire inside it from his position on the silver terrace. He directs the Programmer’s gaze toward the good little soldier, smaller than most others, in the fourth ring. “He displays all the foretold signs.”

The Programmer is surprised. “The Thursday fledgling?”

“You can sense it from here,” Michael says. “His turmoil.”

The good little soldier did not mean to make a friend. He will not cry.

The Programmer has other concerns. “Do you believe Gabriel is the catalyst?”

Michael watches the fire grow, the Grace flashing into lifeless exhaust, forming a heavy cloud that hangs dark and low above the Host. The good little soldier has smoke in his mouth.

“Too soon to say,” Michael says. “But the Plan is in motion. In eighty solar cycles, the time will come. You know your orders.”

“Yes, brother,” the Programmer says. The heat of burning Grace licks at their vessels even from here. The Programmer wears her third body. Michael wears his fourth. They have been dutiful so long their Grace outlived their birth vessels. The ultimate Seraph fulfillment.

“Humans,” Michael reflects. The new skin always feels strange in heat. They are different, the bodies, every time. The minds inside must be feebled, the bones must be strengthened. But in time, they are never long. No body walks free when it may instead serve the Host. “Our swords and shields.”

“Indeed,” the Programmer agrees.

Michael smiles. Spurts and coughs. Ringing and pulsing. A dark and heavy cloud. A good little soldier who does not cry. He did not mean for this to happen. This was always meant to happen.

“It is time to talk about Genesis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:
> 
> How do you feel?
> 
> This upload officially marks the halfway point of my halfway complete plot outline. Which makes us 25-35% of the way through the actual story... ish? I don't know, I don't do math. If I lived in the Star Trek universe I would be a thespian on a space station. And don't worry, even if some very distant plot is still being workshopped, I do have a solid ending that will eventually happen. I'm not THAT crazy!
> 
> Thank you all for reading my brain rot discharge. I hope you are enjoying it. Please feel free to leave a kudo and a comment — I love hearing what you think!


	8. Behind Blue Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you feel?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Somewhat graphic gore (no violence). Medical trauma. See tags, but mostly the dubious science tag. Standard SPN gore, more severe by 60s Star Trek standards.
> 
> Sorry for the long hiatus. And also sorry that we all went through that traumatic haphazard homophobic bullshit of a finale.
> 
> This is a very long chapter.

**Stardate 10918** — _The first day_

“Name. Rank.”

“Commander Castiel of Elysium, Fourth Regiment, Warrior of Thursday.” The words sat coldly on Castiel’s tongue.

Castiel knew being escorted to the _Orion_ in Naomi’s personal craft was a great honor. As he was a Starfleet officer and she was merely connected to Starfleet through her alliance with the Federation, her company signified more than just the Seraphim dedication to intergalactic peace — it demonstrated the faith she held in Castiel. She stood by his side, observing, as Starfleet’s Constitution-class ship grew bigger on the viewscreen. Wide top disk, elongated nacelles, blazing Bussard ramscoops, elementary design. Castiel would remain there, one Seraph among four hundred humans, for the final two of its five year assignment to “explore strange new worlds” and “seek out new civilizations.”

The _Orion_ , currently, was running. Fleeing the wrath of rogue terrorist groups on Gehenna, conservative zealots of Kronos, and ultimately, possible repercussions from the Federation. Rufus Turner had died hardly twelve hours prior, blasted apart in the detonation of a bomb he created himself. The reports following his death remained hazy — the _Orion’s_ crew itself was desperately struggling to understand what had transpired — but it was at least certain they had recovered the hostage and that the majority of fatalities had been Klingon.

“A lifetime of religious discipline, decades of battlefield training, years of Academy studies, and weeks in private trials,” Naomi said. She looked at Castiel. Respectfully, he did not look back. “You have continually proven your significance within the Garrison and your allegiance to the Host.”

Castiel nodded. He could not remember what happened in his private trials, where they had occurred, or even how long he had spent there. All he knew was he had gone straight from his trials to this journey to the _Orion_. Castiel was not certain how he came to be on Naomi’s ship, either, having only become conscious of his presence here what felt like minutes ago, but could well have been hours.

This simultaneous disorientation and focus was reassuring; it meant all procedures had gone correctly, that Castiel was a successful and righteous Seraph. Memories of private trials were always erased from the Seraphim who underwent them, for no single soldier was allowed to know the extent of their own power. Ezekiel, Uriel, Ishim, Hester, Benjamin — they had all proven themselves in the extended tests, and consequently forgotten the experience. When his turn arrived, Castiel had done the same.

“For the Great Father, anything,” Castiel said.

His left hand was clenched in a fist at his side. He could not open it. He did not know why.

“We did not intend to promote you at such short notice,” Naomi said. “Commander Turner’s life ended quite unexpectedly. Still, we would not rush this, but they are in the midst of an… emergency.”

Castiel’s head began to ache slightly. Although he knew his orders and the predicament he was about to be thrust into, something about the details of the emergency — the Winchester boy — tore at his brain. His fist tightened.

“You are still mending, so do not think about it too hard,” Naomi said. Castiel stopped thinking about it, and the ache receded, although the tightness of his fist did not. “I would have rather you recovered fully, but this must do. You will fulfill your duty.”

Seraphim did not _feel_ , exactly, but sometimes, a feeling struck. _It is good to feel useful. It is good to feel proud. It is good to feel you have done something right._ There were bad things to feel, as well. Gabriel had felt them. And later, Anael. Castiel did not. He was a good soldier.

“Your experience in Starfleet Academy has prepared you for this, but you will find that, when in command of a human crew, it will be impossible to eliminate emotion from action,” Naomi advised. “You will be stressed. Pulled in all directions. You must practice fascination over frustration. Observe their behavior, and document it, but do not let them corrupt you. Remember: faith in the Father, faith in his children.”

“Yes,” Castiel said. “They are his children too. Whether they are undevout, or even disbelieve, I must have as much faith in their actions as I do the visions of the Great Father.”

“Excellent,” Naomi said. Castiel didn’t need to look at her to know a smile was pulling at her lips. She was proud of him; that was good. “You are a scientist, and a warrior, but you will also be their greatest healer. Control your variables and protect your assembly.”

They were now within beaming distance of the _Orion_. Naomi hailed their bridge to receive permission to beam aboard. It was granted immediately.

“They cannot wait for you to join them, it seems,” Naomi commented, trailing Castiel to the transportation pad at the back of the bridge. “They are desperately in need of your stoic wisdom.”

Castiel stepped onto the landing pad, looking over the white bridge of Naomi’s sterile ship one final time.

“I shall do my best,” Castiel said.

“Do not fail,” Naomi said. She held up her right hand, and Castiel did the same.

“May the Host live long and the Great Father prosper,” the Seraphim recited together.

Castiel put his hand at his side.

“Goodbye, Castiel,” Naomi said. Particles of light clouded his vision, and in the split second he was beamed across empty space, he caught the faintest ping in his Grace: some kind of bright whistle, like the echo of a red alert.

* * *

Captain Ellen Harvelle did not meet Castiel upon his arrival in the transporter room as per custom. He was instead greeted by two engineers. Their eyes were wide and faces pale but it did not seem to be Castiel they were afraid of.

“Welcome aboard, sir,” said one, voice shaking, as he hurried forward to escort Castiel off the transporter plate.

Castiel stepped down, allowing the engineer to lead him toward the hallway while the other officer turned off the transporter machine. The transporter room was slick with puddles of blood. Castiel’s boots stuck slightly as he lifted them from the floor.

“Sorry ‘bout the mess,” the engineer said as they entered the hallway. He was breathless. The two golden bands on his sleeve indicated he was a commander; therefore he was likely head of his department. “Ellen— Captain’s in Sick Bay. We, uh, we got a problem.”

“I am aware,” Castiel said, avoiding a few human blurs that nearly collided with him. The hallway was frantic with traffic and movement and emotion. A sticky crimson trail beneath their feet led like a string of fate down the corridor. Of all the ways to be introduced to a new crew, this by far had to be the most fascinating. “How severe is it?”

“You have to ask?” The engineer said. He laughed, but he looked as if he were about to collapse. “You’ll see, man. You’ll see.”

Even if he had not memorized a map of the _Orion_ in preparation for this assignment, Castiel would have known they were nearing Sick Bay from eight doors away. There were voices — human voices, some sobbing, some hyperventilating, many shouting. As they drew closer, the human bodies these human voices belonged to began appearing: sitting, leaning, rushing through the corridor. Many were soiled with blood… not necessarily their own.

Finally they reached the Sick Bay doors, which were shut, but a small and very messy crowd had formed around the entryway. This group of officers was distinct from those who populated the busy hallways. Most boasted several gold bands on their arms. They were also bloodier, some suffering wounds. The tallest, in blue, was hysterical, the others holding him back from battering the Sick Bay doors down.

“Ketch,” the engineer called as they drew near. A security officer turned around. He boasted a gash in his forehead, and several over his torso. He was drenched not only in crimson human blood but the bright fuchsia of a Klingon’s.

“Ash,” Ketch responded. His eyes met Castiel’s, and he nodded in greeting, his beady eyes widening. Castiel glanced at his wrists: one solid gold line and one dashed. Lieutenant Commander. “You’re — you’re the Seraph. You’re here.”

Castiel scanned the officers who were now all clamoring to face him — aside from the tall one in blue, who was running his hands through his hair, leaning against a wall.

“They kicked us out,” a woman with red hair said. “Won’t let us see him.”

“Winchester?” Upon speaking the name aloud, Castiel felt a deep tremor through the hallway as the humans winced in unison. No-contact telepathy, although simple between Seraphim, was rather difficult with humans unless under extreme circumstances. It seemed Castiel had underestimated the extent of this crew’s distress.

The engineer — Commander Ash — looked at Castiel. Castiel looked back.

“They call you the miracle worker,” he said.

“Do they.”

Ash swallowed and pressed the intercom button. “Ash to Sick Bay. Captain, he’s here. The First Officer.”

The intercom buzzed in response. “Restrain Sam.”

“Not a fucking animal,” the tallest officer snarled as the Sick Bay doors opened and Ash rushed Castiel inside.

The trail of blood ended at the foot of a biobed surrounded by four medical officers, bent over what must be the recovered body. Castiel could not see much above the legs from his position, and the legs did not look good. The room smelled of offal and disinfectant. He approached the biobed, leaving Ash pale and shaky by the door, but he was intercepted halfway there by a brunette woman in captain’s green.

She was as pallid as the other humans, but her mouth was set firm and her eyes pierced Castiel’s with intelligent clarity. Her voice remained steady, but the astonishing speed at which words rushed from her mouth betrayed her distress.

“Castiel hello I’m Captain Harvelle I’m so glad you’re here sorry about the rush this kid is my friend he’s in real bad shape we’re doing the best we can it doesn’t look good thank you for coming welcome aboard.”

Castiel nodded, keeping his eyes trained on Captain Harvelle’s. “Captain. What are your orders?”

“Anything can help new eyes or advice or maybe we should calm down the crew we have to start the testimonies I gave Jo the helm Starfleet’s gonna kill me for all this but I don’t give a damn.”

Behind Captain Harvelle, one of the medical officers hurried to retrieve something, leaving a window for Castiel to catch a glimpse of a disfigured shoulder. In the soft din of the beeping K3 monitor and mumble of medical officers, there rose a strange incessant whimpering, a weak voice that babbled a language Castiel could almost understand. It was the voice of the body on the table. Castiel became conscious of his own clenched fist once again, the fingernails digging so fiercely into his palm the entire appendage was going numb.

The medical officer returned pushing a silver overbed and closed the window again.

“Castiel I’m gonna get our shit together outside there’s so much to do and I can’t stay here I’ll meet you in interrogation in fifteen shit do you need a map or wait Ash can take you okay I’m sorry I’ll talk to you soon it is great to meet you.”

“And you as well, Sir,” Castiel replied, the captain already rushing out of Sick Bay.

Castiel approached the biobed, stopping just a few feet behind the medical officers as they doted over the naked, bloody body. The whimpering was now more audible; it was not quite Klingonese, but sounded similar. The senior officer looked up from the patient briefly to greet Castiel.

“I’m Doctor Singer,” he said, and jerked his head at the other two officers. “Nurse Mills and Jones. Hand me that hypospray.”

Nurse Jones passed Doctor Singer a hypospray from the overbed table. The doctor injected it into a nearly undamaged patch of flesh on the patient’s thigh.

“Adverse reaction to sedative?” Nurse Mills checked, glancing at the K3 monitor above the biobed.

“Yeah, had a feelin’ we’d be counteracting it. They put somethin’ in his system, can’t for the life of me tell what it is. Jesus, the nerve damage here — sonic separator, please.”

As Nurse Jones handed the device to the doctor, Castiel studied the K3 monitor. Every slow blink of the “pulse” light was accompanied by a deep, throbbing tone. The pain and function indicators for the lungs and brain were hovering in the dangerous red zones of their charts. Castiel had heard of those who recovered from vitals this bad before, but he had never seen it accomplished in the flesh.

The patient’s whimpering was finally petering out following the most recent hypo, only the faintest of sobs bubbling from his torn red lips until, finally, they went still. Nurse Mills spoke to him softly while she cleaned his wounds. Her eyes watered.

“You’re a healer?” Doctor Singer asked Castiel, his head down as he worked.

“Yes, but there is only so much I can do,” Castiel said.

“Same here,” Singer said. “So, here’s hopin’ our skill sets balance out.”

Castiel remained out of the surgeons’ way, avoiding looking closely at the body yet; he preferred to make a full assessment in private after the licensed medical officers had done all they could.

“That was a lot of blood in the corridor,” Castiel remarked.

“He’s lost a lot, but that wasn’t all his,” Doctor Singer said. Castiel noticed a shake in the doctor’s voice absent in his steady hands. “Ketch was bleedin’, his team’s in tatters, Sam’s a mess, he’s coughin’ up blood and he cut up his leg pretty good too. Barely got him to sit still long enough to patch it and then we had to shove him right outta here. Wanted to give Dean his blood while he’s losin’ his own. Idjit. No, we got him on a donor bag now. If Dean dies of anything, it ain’t gonna be blood loss. Not on my watch.”

“Dean’s not _dying_ on my watch,” Nurse Mills choked out. Her hands fumbled and she dropped an instrument, which clattered to the floor. She gasped, tears spilling down her cheeks as she kneeled to pick it up. “Jesus. Sorry. Jesus.”

“Jody, Jody,” Singer said softly. “Alex, prepare the stasis chamber.”

The youngest nurse jumped, heading to the other room. “On it.”

“He’s in too much pain,” Singer said, plainly for Castiel’s benefit. “Those psycho drugs are makin’ our stuff null. Only so much we can do right now besides stabilize. His organs were shutting down, and I think we’ve fixed that, but—”

“That arm,” Nurse Mills interrupted, mostly composed again. “We might have to amputate. All his limbs are in rough shape. It’s like they were playing butchershop.”

“We’re fixing his blood supply, starting on that arm, and then we’re putting him under in a life support canister. Suspends cell activity until we know what’s best for him. Unless you got any helpful tricks up your sleeve.”

Castiel allowed himself a glance at the patient’s face. It truly looked horrible. There were no words.

“May I touch him?” Castiel asked Doctor Singer. “That way I may feel his pain for myself.”

The doctor ogled him. “You want that?”

Quite a strange question — but perhaps the human simply did not understand how gracionic cell repair functioned. “I must, to heal others.”

Doctor Singer nodded. “Okay. And tell us what… tell us what you can do.”

Castiel put two fingers on the man’s bloody thigh and reached forward with his Grace.

The sensation nearly knocked him off his feet. As the room swayed and flames of pain rushed through his body, Castiel felt Doctor Singer steady him with a hand behind his back. Castiel set his jaw and breathed through the intense anguish. After the initial shock of it settled, Castiel scanned forward with his Grace. And he found something — not something he could express in Standard, but he could feel its presence. Or its lack of presence. This was more than physical injury, this was a husk of psychological disarray, this was — it was a corruption of the very essence of life, the vibrant spirit that distinguished a sentient creature from a space vessel.

Castiel removed his fingers and returned to Sick Bay. The humans were staring at him with eyes blown wide.

“Well?” Doctor Singer asked, his hand leaving Castiel’s back.

“He can be healed,” Castiel reported. “Our combined abilities will likely be enough.” He rubbed his fingertips against his thumb to chafe off the sticky blood. His other fist hurt. “In fact, he’s been healed before. His body displays the signs of repetitive, almost periodic cycles of destruction and mending.”

“Bastards,” Nurse Mills said.

“It is quite fascinating,” Castiel agreed. Nurse Mills gave him a cryptic stare as Nurse Jones returned from the other room, reporting that the stasis chamber was ready. Doctor Singer reached as if to take Castiel by the arm, but did not touch him. Instead, he walked, and Castiel followed.

“Probably best if you head out for now,” Singer said. “Don’t wanna overwhelm you on your first day, and I think Ellen could use the support.”

Castiel thought the humans were pointedly more overwhelmed than he was at his point, but conceded that Singer was correct in that he could be more useful elsewhere at the moment. Healing Dean Winchester was not his only duty; he was the first officer of this starship now. There were many variables to track if he were to protect this assembly.

* * *

The interrogation room was clinically intimate. A single light illuminated the logbook that was installed in the center of the room’s single table. Two chairs sat on opposite sides of this table, one empty, one occupied by the Captain. Castiel remained back a few steps, in faint shadow.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Captain Harvelle said, much quieter and slower than she had spoken before.

“Sir?”

Her head turned just slightly in his direction. Her eyes were wet, her gaze distant. “His… arm. His…” the captain put her hand to her face. “You saw him.”

“Yes. Briefly.” Castiel’s thoughts were preoccupied by the hostage as well — less so with his appearance, but the lengths the torturers seemed to have taken to keep him alive during his imprisonment. He was looking forward to a chance to sit down alone with the hostage, study him, heal what he could, perform his duty. His fist ached.

Harvelle took a deep breath that rattled her whole body. “I don’t know what to do.”

She would be disciplined for disobeying orders. And while Chancellor Alastair had remained impassive on the situation so far, Starfleet knew that was not going to last long. Much of why Castiel had been transferred to the _Orion_ so soon, Naomi had informed him, was his proficiency at damage control. This was too much for humans to handle.

Castiel noted the time and adjusted his stance. Harvelle seemed to be waiting for his advice, but the day’s whirlwind of events had, frustratingly, disoriented Castiel. He regretted the life of Rufus Turner had been terminated before this conflict could be resolved. Castiel was a logical adviser, but Harvelle evidently desired a confidante at her side right now, not a stranger.

“His brother is coming,” Castiel said. He sensed Lieutenant Winchester outside the door, his energy frantic enough to resonate in Castiel’s ears. “We finish here, and then we can strategize about—”

“Strategize.”

That was apparently insensitive. “I apologize for the…” he set his jaw. “These are admittedly not… ideal circumstances to grow acquainted with each other.”

“You’re telling me.” She was rather upset.

“I would rather not give you reason to doubt my credentials.”

“Great.”

Castiel crossed to the door and opened it in the face of the victim’s younger brother, who jumped, likely shocked he did not need to buzz in.

“Lieutenant Winchester, have a seat, here.” Castiel moved aside and pointed to the chair opposite Harvelle. The navigator furrowed his brow, his mouth set. His face, now cleansed of dirt and blood, was revealed to be sharply angled, ashen, and badly bruised.

Winchester entered the room and lowered himself into the seat. Although his skin was washed, he still stunk of death, his blue tunic mottled with various species’ blood ranging in color from violet to red to pink to green. Castiel slid the door shut and returned to his position. Winchester continued glancing fervently at Castiel, all the while carefully avoiding eye contact, jiggling one knee with his hands folded on the table. When Harvelle still did not initiate the interview after several seconds, Castiel prompted her.

“Captain?”

“Give me a moment,” she said, her voice soft. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath, then looked up at Winchester. She held his gaze and smiled. Then she stared down at the logbook and cleared her throat.

“Captain's Log, Stardate 10918.8, Captain Ellen Harvelle reporting, First Officer…” she glanced at Castiel. “Castiel… attending. After a month of bargaining with the Gehennian government, efforts to permit a search party within the Rack facilities still proved unsuccessful. Although Starfleet’s orders dictated we tuck tail and leave, I elected to disregard this decision and beam a rescue operations team down for the recovery of Lieutenant Commander Dean Winchester…”

Castiel paid acute attention to the remainder of the interview. Harvelle retained a serenity that reminded Castiel of his fellow soldiers on Elysium. Sam Winchester was barely cooperative, swearing profusely, insulting the Seraphim, glaring at his hands. The young officer explained in unacceptably vague detail the infiltration of The Rack facilities, and at the end of the interview just barely scraped at his suspicion of deliberate foul play.

“I don’t think we should have been able to find him,” Winchester said. “That place is a… your worst nightmare. The fact that Dean’s still alive means something’s really wrong.”

Castiel did not disagree. “Can you elaborate on that?”

Sam Winchester slowly turned his head to Castiel, making direct eye contact with him for the first time. “I just… I have this feeling. Sir.”

Harvelle dismissed Lieutenant Winchester. When he had departed, Castiel turned to the captain.

“What does it mean, ‘fuck you’?”

Castiel did not know what the look Harvelle gave him meant because, while she was now smiling, her face still displayed all her earlier symptoms of sadness.

“Listen,” she said, “don’t take what Sam said personally.”

“I did not.”

“Great. His family just— the Anael incident, that was their mother. Probably knew that, but I’ll give you their files just in case. And— he knows we need you, but it’s going to be hard for him to look at you.”

“He does not have to look at me.”

“My point is it might help if you fake a little bit of emotion. Just out of courtesy. For the grieving.”

“I see.” Castiel felt a headache coming on. “What sort of phrases shall I become acquainted with?”

“Well, ‘my condolences’ is a good one. ‘Sorry for your loss.’ Things in that vein.”

“Ah.” Castiel straightened. “I believe Lieutenant Commander Ketch is outside.”

“Great, bring him in.”

The security officer Arthur Ketch, who obviously had much more experience in the field and in gruelling conditions than Sam Winchester, gave a slightly more cohesive report of the Gehenna mission. While his emotions still impaired his ability to express an accurate account of what happened, it was most fascinating that Mister Ketch agreed, almost verbatim, with Mister Winchester’s claim that the entire situation had conspiratorial undertones. Melkotians should not logically have been on Gehenna, let alone working within The Rack, and the insinuations that the torturers relinquished the victim to the _Orion_ intentionally were — to say the least — rather dubious.

“…I was hoping Dean was dead,” Ketch said, his tone darkening, “when we saw him. Did you see him?”

Harvelle and Castiel nodded.

“When you find a body like that, nearly unrecognizable, you pray that they’re dead already,” Ketch said. He spoke slowly, as if reciting a speech he had drafted but not rehearsed. “That you don’t have to make the choice, to drag it out or to end it there. We don’t see a lot of it — torture — in this job. At least, not on this ship, these kinds of missions. But it’s… everywhere, anyway. And we don’t involve ourselves. Because keep our agendas and technology and politics away and all that. But Dean did nothing wrong and they took him and we were supposed to just let that be?”

_The good little soldier has smoke in his mouth, but he does not cry. They are brothers, not friends, and he never meant for this to happen._

Castiel blinked. He must have tuned out for several moments, for Captain Harvelle was now excusing Mister Ketch, who pushed his chair back as he stood and wiped a hand over his face.

“Alright, yep. Going now. Going to… drink.” The security hesitated, staring Castiel deep in the eyes — a much more welcoming gaze than Sam Winchester’s. It unsettled Castiel. Hostility was often genuine; hospitality was often insincere. “Castiel, you wanna…? Enemy of my enemy and all that?”

“No, I… have a patient to attend to shortly.” Castiel said. Everybody on this ship seemed to be that patient’s brother or that patient’s close friend. Castiel would never understand the human need to complicate professional relationships so thoroughly, would never understand how easily the line between duty and emotion could be crossed. It was so very self-destructive of humans — it had gotten them into this mess in the first place. And now it was Castiel’s duty to heal the one human all four hundred of them had risked their jobs and their lives for. “…Um. M—my corpulences.”

“What?”

“Cor...condolences.”

Captain Harvelle smiled at Ketch. “We're working on it.”

* * *

When the interviews were completed and Castiel had read Dean and Sam Winchester’s files, he went to Sick Bay. The officers were in the throes of an intense surgery and his services were not immediately required. He let them be. Seraphim did not feel disappointment; it was merely frustrating to remain hypothesizing about the victim’s condition and history rather than forming his own observations.

Castiel introduced himself to the bridge. While most officers — with the exception of navigator Sam Winchester, who was absent — manned their stations, every single one stared with a blank bleakness Castiel had grown to understand was rather undesirable in humans. The _Orion_ was cruising at a brisk Warp 7, headed for neutral space to avoid any possible violent altercations with enraged Klingon conservatives chasing them down.

Officers Charlie Bradbury and Garth Fitzgerald offered to give Castiel a private tour of the ship. He accepted. He quickly discovered that Bradbury and Fitzgerald, while incredibly intelligent scientists, talked very much.

Castiel requested to stop by the victim’s private quarters. The officers escorted him there immediately.

“No one’s been inside in a month,” Fitzgerald said. “Although he never really let— lets— anyone in his room, anyway.”

Bradbury grabbed Castiel by the arm just as he was stepping inside the room. He stared at her, but she did not acknowledge her breach of authority.

“I just wanna thank you for what you’re doing, Sir,” Bradbury said. Her small hand had a strong grip. “It’s really hard for us, so if you’re— if there’s anything in that room that will help you understand who Dean is— why we’re so—”

“I understand,” Castiel said. Although he doubted this statement, his very utterance of the words were testimony to their truth, for Seraphim could not lie.

Bradbury released Castiel and he entered Dean Winchester’s quarters.

There was nothing of interest except a portrait of a dark-haired human in a red tunic hanging on one wall.

Castiel’s fist opened and something fell to the floor beside the bed with a tiny thud. He did not stop to look at it. His head was aching inside this room. He could taste smoke.

* * *

 **Stardate 10919** — _The second day_

Dean Winchester was unconscious within the large metal-and-glass canister of the stasis chamber. A sheet, rather than the usual infirmary wardrobe, covered his body. It had been too risky to handle him any further before he had displayed advanced signs of recovery. Castiel lifted the lid of the stasis chamber and the machine slowly elevated Dean Winchester to an operable level, a cool hissing mist billowing away from the body. Castiel gently pulled the sheet downward, revealing the upper half of what remained of Dean Winchester.

Sam Winchester gasped softly from the other side of the room. Castiel glanced upward. The younger brother sat beside Doctor Singer, the two of them in chairs against the opposite wall, observing. Castiel preferred to heal alone, but the humans remained distrustful, and the younger brother had insisted on being present for this.

Of course, humans boasted much weaker constitutions than Seraphim. At the sight of the body, Lieutenant Winchester turned his face away, breathing hard. Singer put a hand on the younger officer’s knee and nodded for Castiel to focus on his work.

As many wounds as possible had been cleaned, but still, the unfortunate creature before Castiel was barely recognizable as a human. The medics had at least finished setting his shattered arm — Castiel was grateful for that, as skeletal injuries always took their greatest toll on him — and all that remained visible of the wounds was a horrific burn on his shoulder, shaped like a comet with five flaming trails. Dean Winchester’s other limbs were all but shredded, his organs still on the brink of collapse, his nervous system a disaster, and the several regulators attached to the patient — around what was left of his nose and mouth — obscured much of his face from view. In fact, it seemed the only thing the torturers hadn’t desecrated were the man’s eyes, peacefully hidden beneath the delicate, almost shiny curves of his eyelids.

This kind of task was always unpleasant, and he had never attempted a healing of this scale, but it was good to feel useful. It was good to be proud. It was good to feel one was doing right. Confirming the position of the chair behind him, Castiel took a deep breath and pressed two fingers against Dean Winchester’s forehead. With a prayer to the Great Father, his Grace breached the gap between their bodies.

The pain began in the center of Castiel’s skull, behind his nose and below his eyes. It was a hot prodding at the farthest, highest corner of his throat that sent red waves pulsing through his vision.

He folded Dean Winchester’s broken nose into its correct place again with a slow click. Fresh skin blossomed over the tip and spread outward to cover his cheeks, the incisions in his flesh melting into his new complexion.

A vice-like grip pressed into Castiel’s temples and his limbs tingled with oncoming numbness. The prodding in the back of his nasal cavity intensified as if a worm were burrowing into his brain.

He realigned Dean Winchester’s teeth, filling out the chipped incisors into their perfect square shapes. He sculpted his lips back into their natural appearance, which glistened and came to rest calmly, _softly_ over his teeth.

Castiel’s ears rang so loud they drowned out the loud thumping of his own heart.

He whisked away the swelling in Dean Winchester’s jaw, formed his eyebrows into a discernible shape, faded the bruises on his neck into a natural color. Freckles appeared over the new skin of his cheeks. His eyelids remained closed, but in a final push of his Grace, Castiel could sense that beneath them his irises were green.

_—told you, I am going to get you out. I told you— You told— I was told— We do not have friends— Were you born with this face?— I am not a quitter— You never did what you were told. Not completely. We just can’t beat this out of you. You will do it yourself— It’s just meat— You will never be free— A dull sword won’t do. Finish this— Can you see me? You are my friend. This is real. I am going to get you out of here—_

“Commander? How do you feel?”

Castiel opened his eyes.

“Good thing this chair was here, you woulda cracked your head open.”

Doctor Singer was standing over him. Castiel shut his eyes again, ears still ringing.

“Was that satisfactory?” His voice was very weak and he was uncertain whether Doctor Singer could hear him. He straightened up in his chair and fought back a wave of nausea.

“Commander,” said Sam Winchester’s voice. Castiel turned in that direction and tried to blink him into focus. He had difficulty reading his expression when it was covered in tears.

“He— he is alive, but I am not finished,” Castiel offered.

“That’s insane,” Sam gasped, staring at the biobed. “Commander, I— Bobby— Look at him. That’s _Dean_.”

His voice broke completely before he could finish the sentence, and he stepped away, hyperventilating, rubbing his hands over his face.

“I can’t— do this.” He pushed his long hair back and turned to Castiel, his expression chaotic and pained. “You have to finish this.”

“I am going to finish this.” Castiel felt a pit growing in his stomach. His skin was prickling, almost _crawling_ in a way it never had after a healing. There was something… something he felt he should remember. Something smoky, something different, something wrong. Castiel turned his head to stare at Dean Winchester’s face, the shiny curved eyelids and distinctly shaped lips. Castiel remembered the string of nonsense words Dean had muttered yesterday that he did not know, but knew he should have.

Something smoky. Something different. Something wrong.

* * *

 **Stardate 10922** — _The Fifth Day_

_**EH.** —an extension of the mandated rescue operations reports regarding the Gehenna mission. Lt. Commander Dean Winchester has begun responding to treatment and, as of this moment, interactions between the Federation and the Klingon empire have remained civil. _ _Please state your name and rank for the log._

_**C.** Commander Castiel, First Officer. _

_**EH.** You are the primary healer of Dean Winchester at this time, correct? _

_**C.** Yes. Although that was not our intention. His body is responding to my abilities more naturally than to technological treatments and therefore I am responsible for a greater portion of his recovery than anticipated. _

_**EH.** Is that concerning? _

_**C.** Perhaps. It is certainly fascinating. _

_**EH.** Doctor Singer will provide a detailed medical report, but could you… briefly explain the process? Or the routine, at least; I understand the process itself is rather intimate. _

_**C.** And more complicated than medical procedures, yes. Every day I heal him for a period between twenty minutes and two hours, depending on what either of us can take. Doctor Singer’s responsibility is the monitoring and consistent care, because I am at my most useful when I have a period to rest, and for Dean himself there is a point of diminishing returns in gracionic cell repair. _

_I do not mean to alarm you; Dean Winchester’s physical recovery remains on a promising trajectory. Any critical injuries were stabilized within the first two days. Theoretically, he could now make a full physical recovery without my help, although it would take much longer._

_**EH.** But he hasn’t woken up yet. _

_**C.**...No. Captain, physical damage can be healed with ease. It takes time, but in time, any wound short of death can be repaired. Even death in some cases— but that is a subject for another study. I apologize— situation, not study. _

_Physical damage is nothing. It is the psychological damage that concerns us. He has opened his eyes several times, but otherwise remains unresponsive. Occasionally he… mutters words in a language neither I nor Ensign Tran can recognize._

_**EH.** It is my understanding that Seraphim possess telepathic abilities. Do you intend to utilize these during—_

_**C.** I have tried. It is very difficult to reach, which is— that is unusual for me. It may be a side effect of the narcotics used during his time in the Rack, or— hm. _

_**EH.** What’s that face for? You good? _

_**C.** Yes… sorry, I… Do you smell… smoke? _

_**EH.** …No? Maybe your senses are better than mine. It could be Mick, down the hall. He’s engineered his own mini kitchen in his quarters; hoards genuine food preserves and everything. Last year he was cooking real Brussels sprouts, not synthetic ones, and they caught fire — how do Brussels sprouts even catch fire? Anyway, God, all of Deck Six just reeked. I thought Rufus was gonna commit murder— _

* * *

 **Stardate 10930** — _The eleventh day_

When Castiel fixed his hands, he could sense that Dean Winchester’s palms had once been calloused, arthritic — the mortal vessel is a funny thing; it retains memory independent from the mind within it — but Castiel had taken the liberty of restoring their youth. It was not necessary, but it made holding them more pleasant. He was holding them now, gripping Dean Winchester’s hands and closing his eyes and ardently directing his ever-tiring grace into the man’s slowly-recovering tendons and sinews.

Every day, though it was pointless and exhausting, he tried to pry into Dean Winchester’s mind, to help ease him back into consciousness. He was stable enough now, physically, that consciousness was truly their next goal; far from fear of death and at risk only of pain that Doctor Singer’s medications would dull to easily tolerable levels, the only thing left to lose was, as Lt. Commander Bradbury had put it, “what made Dean _Dean_ in the first place.”

This crew loved Dean. Love: an alien concept to a Seraph, and definitions were of little assistance. “An intense feeling of deep affection.” Castiel did not know affection, either. Yet in those moments, on this ship, when he felt something was wrong… Perhaps the wrong feelings, those Gabriel and Anael had felt and been extinguished for, perhaps these were feelings that humans gave names such as these to. And perhaps, in humans, they did not feel so wrong. It hurt to think about. Castiel tried not think about it, but he could not avoid it, not as he felt the steady pulse through the soft skin of Dean’s palms, not as his essence coursed through every vein in the man’s body, not as he gently felt upward into the man’s brain, hoping for a glimpse at what affection was worth, what love was worth.

Correction: Castiel was hoping for a clearer glimpse at what had been done to Mister Winchester in the depths of the Rack. They could not solve the case of the Gehennian slave traffickers unless they detracted the information from the source. Love and affection were merely words for distractions, confusing humans like Sam Winchester from their primary goal: galactic peace. It was Castiel’s purpose aboard this ship, his _duty_ , to remind them of that.

“I am considering a mind meld,” Castiel said six hours later, sitting alone at the table in his private quarters, speaking to a small video of Naomi on his desktop viewscreen. This was only his second time speaking to her since he had joined the _Orion._

“That technique has not been used in many cycles,” Naomi said. “Why do you propose this method over a simple reading?”

Even through video, it was improper for Castiel to meet her eyes. That was a strange difference, working with humans — the eye thing. Human eyes were meant to be studied; in fact, understanding humans proved more difficult without eye contact. Seraphim were the opposite.

“My duty is to assist in resolving the Gehennian conflict to the best of my abilities,” Castiel said. “And it is also my duty to save Dean Winchester.”

“Heal. Your duty is to heal him.”

“Yes. However, reading his mind will not allow me to heal him. Not psychologically. Although I may acquire knowledge helpful to the Gehenna case, I would not finish my job.”

“You understand that sacrifices have to be made,” Naomi said slowly. “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one.”

“Yes. But if there is a logical solution to avoid that scenario, I do not see why it should not be taken.” Castiel realized his circulatory rate was increasing and took a moment to calm himself. “A mind meld will allow me to… put up a wall for Mister Winchester. He may be able to recover consciousness and agency. And—” Castiel could sense Naomi wanted to interrupt. “—in doing so, he may recover additional memories on his own time, and provide his own opinion on what action to take. You understand humans are complicated, Sir. Even melding our minds with theirs does not allow us to comprehend the depths of their psyches.”

“They are needlessly complicated creatures.” Naomi assented, her tone remaining neutral. “Must I remind you of the ramifications of the meld?”

Although mind melds weren’t exactly forbidden, all Seraphim understood the enactment of them was, to put it simply, _wrong._ A mind reading was simple: any Seraph could pull forth the memories of a patient to witness them for themselves, not unlike a projection on a starship viewscreen. A mind _meld_ was much more complicated. Merging a Seraph mind with that of a human opened thousands of channels for — as Hester had once put it — “cross-contamination.” The introduction of deep emotions, doubts, faithlessness, and other human flaws could all too easily compromise a Seraph’s integrity. The risks, in almost every case, outweighed the rewards. Anael was one of the last to attempt a mind meld. While it hadn’t directly caused her fall from Grace, the event and its unchecked side effects fit distinctly within her pattern of dissension. That pattern had led to the termination of her life.

“I understand the consequences,” Castiel said. “But the Great Father will steer me from corruption. I have faith.”

Naomi took a moment before responding again. “The Council will discuss how to proceed. In the meantime, carry on with your tasks. We will alert you when we have reached a decision.”

* * *

 **Stardate 10936** — _The eighteenth day_

Dean Winchester reached a decision first.

His eyes flew open on the eighteenth day and he choked around the nasogastric tube in his throat, right hand shooting out to grasp whatever was nearest, which of course was Castiel.

Castiel was caught entirely off guard, his eyes shut and his hand pressed against the comet-shaped burn on Dean’s left shoulder (which, strangely, fit perfectly beneath his palm and fingers — Castiel was beginning to think that the accidental shape of a comet may in fact have been an intentional handprint). His focus was buried deep inside Dean’s humerus, his Grace knitting his severest fracture back together at the root, when Dean’s right arm shot out and caught Castiel by the front of his shirt.

Dean’s face had fascinated Castiel when he was unconscious, but awake… something felt… different. Staring at him, Castiel’s veins ran cold. Eyes round and wild, pink lips trembling, Dean gasped for air but said nothing. Castiel’s shirt bunched up around his throat as Dean’s fingers tightened their grip in the fabric, right over his heart.

“D—Dean,” Castiel gritted out. The healing had weakened him and now his head was aching and the room was spinning and, in some disturbingly familiar way, the tears spilling down Dean’s cheeks captivated him. Castiel swallowed, trying to raise his voice. “Doctor Singer— _Doctor Singer!_ He’s—”

“ _No_.”

Dean’s voice was little more than a wheeze, a hitch of air, high-pitched and fragile, indistinct from his previous mutterings aside from the fact he was definitely speaking in Standard now. Castiel's mouth snapped shut. His hand was still on Dean’s shoulder, and although his Grace had lost all hold on Dean’s humerus the moment he’d been distracted, Castiel thought he— thought he could still feel something— he wasn’t quite sure what. It weighed thick and dusty on his tongue.

“Stop,” Dean croaked.

“You are safe,” Castiel said. “This is the _Orion._ ”

Dean’s pupils were blown large, gaping black circles in a tiny ring of green. Those eyes bored into Castiel’s as if they could see nothing else.

“We’re inside— out.” A rough, painful gasp, and a tear streaked another shiny path down his cheek. “You—”

Dean choked around the feeding tube again, sending himself into a wet coughing fit. Castiel forced his face away, calling to Doctor Singer again, and only when his voice echoed in the empty Sick Bay did he realize the man must have finally stepped out for his lunch break while Castiel had been transfixed on Dean’s recovery.

Dean’s hand jumped from Castiel’s shirt to the back of his neck, pulling his head down to make eye contact with him again, almost desperate. His grip was impossibly firm — or Castiel was incredibly weak.

“You told— told me this was your real face,” Dean whimpered, weeping.

Castiel struggled to get his tongue working against the ashy weight in his mouth. The tear tracks over Dean’s cheekbones almost fragmented the light, something pinging inside Castiel’s head and the whites in his vision flashing a bit too brightly. 

“Dean,” he finally managed.

Dean leaned shakily forward until his nose brushed Castiel’s, his hot breath hissing harshly through his teeth. “ _Just finish it_.”

His shiny eyelids fluttered shut and his head dropped back against the biobed, his hand slipping from Castiel’s neck to fall heavily on his chest. Castiel straightened and stood, thoughts racing and head pounding.

“ _Variables…_ ” Castiel shut his eyes and tried to focus.

“What’s happened?”

Castiel turned as the doors slid shut behind Doctor Singer, who was holding a cup of coffee, his face paling beneath his scraggly beard.

“Dean— woke up,” Castiel fumbled.

“Shit.” Singer perched his coffee in another biobed and rushed for Dean’s bedside. “Commander—”

Castiel took the doctor by the arm gently, too concerned on gathering his focus to worry about the discomfort of unnecessary human contact.

“He passed out just moments ago,” Castiel explained. “He was incoherent. I fear he may grow violent if it happens again. I advise we end it now before it worsens—”

“ _End_ it?” Singer’s mouth hung open. “What do you— Restrain him, or—”

“No, I mean—” Castiel watched Dean’s chest rise and fall. “His mind has been broken. I will fix it. I am going to read his mind— I have tried before, but perhaps I will be more successful now that he has—”

“Jumpstarted his own consciousness?” Singer finished incredulously.

Castiel nodded. “In theory, I may be able to bury his trauma for him, and allow him to wake up as the Dean you know and love.”

Singer watched Castiel for a moment, his face softening. Castiel felt his own chest aching with a complex rush of worry. It was not anxiety alone, but he had no name for the sensations that accompanied it.

“In theory?” Singer said finally.

Castiel pulled up his chair and leaned over Dean again, splaying his hand over the man’s peaceful face — his thumb to his chin, one finger against the soft skin below his eye, one at the curve of his brow— 

“I will do everything I can. Get Captain Harvelle.”

He shut his eyes and let his Grace dive downward.

* * *

Castiel’s hands shook as he sat before the small desktop viewscreen, watching the buttons (yellow and red and blue and white, stark against the black surface of the counter) instead of meeting Naomi’s eyes. It had been a very long and tiring day, and his head hurt very much, and speaking with Naomi — something that usually reassured Castiel of his abilities and purpose — now sent sharp pains through his stomach. In his periphery he could see her hands folded on the screen.

Instead of his private quarters, Castiel was giving this report directly from the Sick Bay office, and he was not alone — Doctor Singer, Nurse Mills, and Captain Harvelle stood behind him. Sam Winchester was in Sick Bay’s main room thirty feet away, sitting beside Dean and, according to the last Castiel had seen of him prior to the call, talking to his unconscious brother quietly. He thought Sam was, perhaps, praying.

“Castiel,” Naomi repeated. “The details of your mind reading?”

Castiel watched the buttons beyond his shaking hands. He had read minds before. And he had never been this… confused.

“The drugs used on him in the Rack have shuffled his memories together,” Castiel said. “I do not— In terms of details, I am not sure what was a hallucination or a reality. I am certain he was held in a dark room and mutilated to the brink of death every day. His torturers healed him between each period of abuse. He does not remember how. He only remembers the details of the techniques, and one face — it is a Klingon face, but not one I recognize.”

Naomi remained silent.

“If it’s any help, I’m officially prescribing the trauma-erasure-via-mind-meld procedure,” Singer offered.

“It is not,” Naomi said. “No medical license can prepare one a non-Seraphim to oversee a mind meld.”

Castiel felt Singer stiffen behind him. “Why, I—”

“Naomi,” Captain Harvelle interrupted above Castiel’s left shoulder. “I am biased. I want to get my best pilot, and my friend, back to living his life. Happy. And I want his brother and my crewmates to be happy. But aside from that, I want the truth. I want to know what happened on Gehenna and I feel that you do, too.”

“You are correct,” Naomi said.

“Castiel believes this is what’s best for us and for Dean,” Harvelle continued. “And he’s done so much for us already, much he didn’t need to. I don’t know how any of us would have managed without him, personally or professionally, and— and I have faith in him.”

Castiel’s hands shook. He pressed them against the cool table and tried not to think about the soft pattern of Dean’s freckles beneath his fingertips and the sharp echoes of Dean’s screams in his mind.

“We’ll comply to— to any customs that must be honored for the procedure. Please consider the mind meld, Naomi.”

Naomi’s smile was wide enough to register in Castiel’s periphery.

“Tomorrow,” she conceded. The human sigh of relief behind Castiel almost assuaged the ache in his chest as well. He balled up his fists on the table so he could not watch his fingers tremble. “Tomorrow we will save Dean Winchester.”

* * *

Time, being relative, is all in your head.

It’s best not to lose it.

* * *

 **Stardate** — ERROR

**_4R-C._ ** _—lied to me. And I’ve lied, to— everyone— and what you’ve done to—_

 **_PGRM._ ** _What does it mean, “to lie?”_

 **_4R-C._ ** _—forcing me to—_

 **_PGRM._ ** _What does it mean?_

 **_4R–C._ ** _—the things I’ve—_

 **_PGRM._ ** _Soldier._

 **_4R-C._ ** _…To lie: “To tell a false statement with the intention to deceive—”_

 **_PGRM._ ** _Do you know why Seraphim do not lie, soldier? …No?_

_It is not our aversion to deception, but our devotion to truth. You see, soldier, the mind— it is a funny thing. The only truth is in memory._

**_4R-C._ ** _What?_

 **_PGRM._ ** _Do you know what is real, soldier? Are you lying if you speak the truth about reality as you understand it to be true?_

 **_4R-C._ ** _...What have you done to me?_

 **_PGRM._ ** _We could not have a repeat of Gabriel. Thankfully, you have always cooperated when the time comes._

 **_4R-C._ ** _I won’t._

 **_PGRM._ ** _You said that last time. And yet, you passed your trials._

 **_4R-C._ ** _How— No. I remember, and there’s no— I couldn’t have passed, not after what I did. I beat you. I beat all of you, you couldn’t— you couldn’t control me—_

 **_PGRM._ ** _And you think we did not let you?_

 **_4R-C._ ** _You’re lying. You— that’s what you do._

 **_PGRM._ ** _Soldier, petulance does not suit your stolen face._

_**4R-C.** …My… _

**_PGRM._ ** _Or did you forget?_

 **_4R-C._ ** _No, that’s not— that’s not true, get away from me— my face—_

 **_PGRM._ ** _Quit struggling, soldier. You are going to finish this, because you are useful. You have done everything right. Your Father has commanded it._

 **_4R-C._ ** _Stop. I didn’t— steal it._

 **_PGRM._ ** _Didn’t you? Quit struggling. I will only hurt you if you force me to._

 **_4R-C._ ** _Stop—_

 **_PGRM._ ** _Shh. We are proud of you._

_**4R-C.** Dean— _

* * *

This is what happened.

Three weeks ago, you completed your private trials and boarded the _Orion_ to accept your new position as First Officer, replacing Commander Rufus Turner, who died in a rescue mission of equivocal legality on the Klingon penal colony of Gehenna.

You made an excellent team with Captain Ellen Harvelle and did not face much difficulty assimilating yourself into the _Orion’s_ crew.

Your greatest obligations during this time differed slightly than what your regular First Officer responsibilities would entail, but you fulfilled them sufficiently — commanding the _Orion_ while Captain Harvelle was occupied in meetings between Federation and Klingon officials, assisting in Gehenna-related conflict negotiations, and healing the rescued torture victim.

While you assisted his physical recovery, Mister Winchester could not regain a sufficient quality of life without a telepathic intervention.

With the elders’ guidance, you completed a procedure wherein the memories Mister Winchester held from his time in the Rack facilities could be buried within his own mind and blocked from his consciousness, allowing him to awaken. He will now finish recovery with the intent to return to his duties as navigator of the _Orion._

This procedure also allowed you to extract his memories for the benefit of the Gehenna investigation, although their reliability remains indeterminate. He remembers the Gehennian events according to the following.

Mister Winchester was held captive in a dark room. He was routinely tortured to the brink of death and healed afterwards in a repetitive cycle. His captors utilized an unidentified hallucinogenic drug to further disorient him and prolong his ability to remain awake during the torture. While there were many torturers present, he only remembers one Klingon face clearly. The face does not match any face in any databank; it is possible he is misremembering said face.

He does not remember the motivation behind those who tortured him.

He does not remember who or what rescued him from the Rack.

You know what Mister Winchester knew.

This is what happened.

* * *

 **Stardate 10938** — _The twentieth day_

Like he had every morning for the past twenty days, Castiel awoke with a headache, his ears ringing faintly and temples throbbing. He dressed himself in a clean tunic and said his prayers, recorded an entry on his personal log, and elected to skip a morning meal in case Mister Winchester’s procedure had come undone in any way during the night. Castiel did not want to get nauseous in someone else’s biobed.

He made his way to Sick Bay, every click of his boots against the clean floor resounding in his head with the anticipation of that satisfaction following a job thoroughly accomplished. It is good to feel useful. It is good to feel proud. It is good to feel you have done something right.

Nurse Mills greeted Castiel as the scarlet Sick Bay doors slid open.

“There’s our miracle worker,” she beamed, beckoning Castiel inside.

Dean Winchester was awake, sitting upright and appearing completely healthy aside from the cast on his left arm and the recognizable glow of pain medication in his face. At his sides stood his brother, Lt. Commanders Bradbury and Ketch, Lt. Fitzgerald, Ensign Harvelle, and Commander Ash. To crowd so many non-medical personnel into Sick Bay at once was overwhelming, not to mention irresponsible. But the officers’ faces were blissful and Castiel could sense waves of _happiness_ in the air that had been markedly absent on the _Orion_ over the past three weeks, so he elected to say nothing of regulations.

“See? _Smoov as a baby’s arse cheek_ ,” Dean was saying, his hand held out to Commander Ketch with his palm splayed upward.

“Sure,” Ketch said, tentatively poking at Dean’s palm. “And, uh, interesting impression.”

“Fanks, gov’na.”

Captain Harvelle approached Castiel from the side of the room, Doctor Singer behind her. Both were smiling with glistening eyes.

“How you feelin’?” Harvelle asked.

“Bit of a headache,” Castiel said.

The captain laughed. Doctor Singer held his closed fist out to Castiel.

“Figured you might say that,” he smiled. He pressed a small pill into Castiel’s palm.

“This will do very little for me, but thank you,” Castiel said, swallowing the pain reliever dry. His throat felt coated in a smoky film, and the pill did not go down easy.

“Naomi told us you would be pretty taxed,” Harvelle said. “But, uh. Job well done, Castiel. We’re endlessly grateful, really. Don’t know what we’d do without you. Wanna finally meet your star patient? You know, face-to-face instead of… mind-to-mind, or whatever.”

The captain walked Castiel closer to the biobed he had spent the last twenty days hunched over. The officers around it quieted down from their teary laughter, watching Castiel with an uncomfortably aggressive vulnerability. Dean turned his head at Castiel’s approach, his eyelids a little droopy with pain medication. His gaze met Castiel’s.

“Hey, good lookin’,” Dean smirked. He coughed, face falling, and turned to Sam beside him, waggling his broken arm as much as the cast would allow. “Who th’fuck is this weirdo?”

“You’re tired,” Sam said to Dean. He turned to Castiel, his smile apologetic. “He’s tired.”

“Fresh piece’a ass,” Dean slurred, then giggled hysterically.

Castiel clasped his hands behind his back. “I am Commander Castiel. Your new First Officer.”

“Oh, shit,” Dean said happily.

“He’s a Seraph,” Sam said.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Dean said unhappily. He straightened in the biobed, expression darkening to a pointedly hostile glower. “S’when they let _you_ fuckers back in Starfleet?”

“Stardate 9430,” Castiel said. “To be precise.”

Dean Winchester glared. Castiel stared placidly back. If that pain killer did not kick in soon, Castiel was going to have a very long day.

A very long two years full of very long days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:
> 
> "I don’t think everything happens for a reason. I just think we should make what’s happened worth happening."  
> 
> 
> I did not want to take such a long hiatus, but I had finals week, election week, got sick, and then the Supernatural finale happened, and then I had another finals week.
> 
> I am also in massive shock to realize that I wrote a fix-it vignette for Dean's impalement with an iron rod months before it actually happened. It was a little sickening to see that actually happen on screen. Like, of all the vignettes to end up prophetic, why did it have to be that one? At least Cas healed him in mine.
> 
> Thank you all so much for sticking with this story. I will try to get updates back to every three weeks! Feel free to leave a kudo and a comment; I love to hear what you have to say! And if you need to rant about the finale... I gotchu. I promise this story won't end the same way.


End file.
